William Christian – Guest Contributor
I cannot win—
every choice a crime,
every effort weighed and found wanting.
My hands bleed proof
that trying was never enough.
Sometimes I dream of running—
not toward hope,
but away from the noise—
yet even escape has no address,
no door willing to open.
Do you know the cruelty
of being tall enough to cast a shadow
yet watched as if you are made of air?
Six feet of silence,
walked through,
overlooked,
erased.
I turn every corner
and there I am—
unavoidable,
a witness to my own unraveling.
The breath comes fast and heavy,
a monster in my chest—
until I understand
it is me,
clawing for air,
drowning while surrounded by nothing.
A sea with no waves.
A depth with no bottom.
I am the void they whisper about—
empty,
hollowed clean.
I never believed in such things…
until belief found me.
I am not allowed to grieve.
My pain is stolen,
reframed,
paraded as someone else’s tragedy.
I am not allowed to hurt
without an audience
that crowns itself the victim
of wounds it never earned.
They crave the center,
even in stories where I am the one bleeding.
So I become a vessel—
used, cracked, discarded—
a sinking ship dragged beneath
the blackest waters of existence.
No rescue flares.
No mourning.
Just silence settling like silt
over my bones.
Now I lie where wrecks are found—
a relic of a life once afloat,
waiting to be discovered
and misunderstood.
I raise the white flag—
not for peace,
but because there is no strength left
to keep my fists clenched.
I cannot win.
And the dark knows my name.
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