There was a time, not long ago,

when my nights were battlegrounds I reveled in.

Creaking floorboards;

bleeding knuckles on drywall;

ink-stained fingers,

like I’d dipped them in death itself.

Ranting, panting,

pacing as if on a tight deadline,

chain-smoking myself into oblivion’s arms.

I was alive 

most when I wanted to die.

Now my time is booked with nothing.

My calendar is a black hole

that never calls back;

a silent emptiness.

I don’t cry in theaters.

I don’t scream in the shower.

I don’t stare at the ceiling when I’ve just woken up.

I am well.

God help me, I am well –

so much so that I could chew my own face off.

I don’t miss the pain,

let’s be clear.

But I miss what it granted me:

a black, bitter plum

I squeezed into poems

with both hands,

letting it drip down my wrists

onto the page

like holy ink.

Those days,

the words came easy,

sliding through my veins

like jazz riffs in a backroom bar –

smooth, bitter and true.

Now I sit in this quiet temple

with no entity to confess to.

And I wonder –

if the words only come

when I unravel...

do I dare stay intact?

Will they return

only when I collapse again –

a glorious, awful wreck

full of verses

and venom?

What a price it is,

just to sit still.

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Arno (he/him) is an English Literature student and emerging writer exploring themes of existential disaffection, navigating sex and queerness in early adulthood, and the creative edges of personal turmoil. His work most often leans into stream-of-consciousness, though he also experiments across forms.