Unbroken Glass + prompt

   If im being honest, i haven't been the same since the beginning of the year, overthinking during new years eve, then it did happen, i hadn't known what it would have been but i had expected something and something did happen and now im left grappling at the million pieces of my older version as they disintegrate into thin air, i know im being dramatic but im not, promise. this time i can breathe fine but its not my lungs im worried about this time, the tears haven't come yet. older me would've have been sitting in a corner hugging herself letting all the unsaid words flow across her face but not this me. no. the present version of me is composed right now shes not panicking as she would have, she already did that before things happened now she just sits waiting for the other shoe to drop even then im not sure if shell cry or will she drown this time. her chest tightens and her hands feel numb but her eyes are dry she wants to cry but maybe deep down shes afraid that if she starts she wont be able to stop this time.

Oh nevermind here come the tears apparently all it takes is standing in the line of fire. so i learnt a another thing about the old me and me now, older me didnt need to be invovlved shed cry nonetheless, new me started only when she wasnt understood, but shes stopped again. and i know it in my heart shes stopped because she doesnt agree with the version she was shown in a mirror made of lies, but she will think about it and break the moment her head hits her pillow and shell start doubting the image she was shown earlier even if it looks nothing like her. so in a way all she can do is wait until that mirror shatter, glass is still not sharper than words.

holdup as i writea poem on my own prompt...

I haven’t been the same
since the beginning of the year.

New Year’s Eve
and I was already overthinking,
as if my body knew
something was waiting
with my name on it.

I didn’t know what it would be —
just that it would be.

And it happened.

Not a thunderclap,
not a cinematic collapse,
just something sharp enough
to split me from
who I was.

Now I am left
grappling at a million pieces
of my older self
as they thin out,
as they dissolve,
as they refuse to be gathered.

I know it sounds dramatic.

It isn’t.

This time I can breathe fine —
it’s not my lungs I’m worried about.

The tears hadn’t come.

Older me
would have been in a corner by now,
arms around her knees,
letting unsaid words
spill down her face
like confession.

But not this me.

No.

This version
already panicked
before it happened.

She exhausted herself
anticipating impact.

So now she sits still,
composed,
waiting for the other shoe
to drop.

Even then
she doesn’t know —
will she cry
or will she drown?

Her chest tightens.
Her hands go numb.
Her eyes stay dry.

She wants to cry.
Maybe she’s afraid
that if she starts
she won’t be able
to stop.

And then —
standing in the line of fire —
the tears come.

Apparently
that’s all it takes.

Another difference
between who I was
and who I am:

Older me
didn’t need to be involved.
She would cry anyway.

New me
only breaks
when she isn’t understood.

And then she stops again.

Because she doesn’t agree
with the version
she was shown —

a mirror
made of lies.

She knows
that reflection
isn’t hers.

But tonight,
when her head hits the pillow,
she will replay it.

She will turn it
under dim light
and ask herself
what if.

What if the distortion
wasn’t distortion.

What if she missed something.

What if the glass
was clearer
than she thinks.

She will doubt
even knowing
it looks nothing like her.

So she waits.

For the mirror to shatter.

Because glass
is still not sharper
than words.