How do you do it all on your own?
A fortress built of broken glass,
each shard a memory, a ghost
of love that turned to dust.

You wear your wounds like armor,
each scar a badge of battles won.
But beneath the stoic mask,
a heart that bleeds for what it's lost.

I crave the touch you've learned to shun,
a touch that's become a burden.
You've been touched too much, you say,
while I hunger for even a crumb.

You hold the ghosts of those who've gone,
a graveyard within your soul.
When you say you hurt, they can't deny,
their echoes ringing in your every howl.

Afraid, you pound your fists on walls,
creating holes for yesterday's calls.
Cradle your face, a question hangs -
Is it worth it, this life of pain?

You say, 'I survived,' patching your window panes,
'Yeah, it hurts, but what's worse is…
they'll forget me, on purpose.'

I am not you, I'm more afraid,
counting down the moments, every day.
I wish I had your strength, your walls,
but I am fragile, a withering flower in the fall.

They don't love you, just what you give,
a bottomless well of endless grace.
I wish they knew you, the depths of your grief,
the way they broke you, piece by piece.

You're ruined, you say, and you wear it cool,
a warrior king in a world cruel.
But I see the pain behind the facade,
the love you've lost, the world you've had.

I loved you, I watched you,
a soul so strong, so true.
You're not ruined, just marked by life,
a testament to courage, a constant strife.

I am not you, no, I am not you.
But I will learn from your resilience,
your strength, your pain,
and carry on, with a hope that remains.

© matthewwwebster