Life is like a sharp stick—

jabbed in your side when you least expect it,

not deep enough to kill,

just enough to remind you you’re bleeding.

You smile through the sting,

walk with a limp no one sees,

because everyone’s got their own wound

hidden beneath pressed shirts and polite words.

Some days you scream in silence,

bite your tongue so hard it bruises,

just to make it through the next moment

without crumbling like ash.

And still—

we get up,

we carry the stick,

sometimes sharpen it ourselves,

just to feel something

when the world goes numb.

But you’re not alone.

Everyone’s bleeding,

everyone’s breaking

and still—

we’re all still here.