Condemned
I do not complain loudly.
My anguish escapes instead in the silence—
like bubbles rising from the depths below.
For sometimes I feel as though I am drowning.
My foundation was condemned.
My walls— my whole life's structure—
must be broken first before I am allowed to grow.
And as each wall comes crashing down, I find myself clinging—
clutching desperately at my heart, trying to hold it steady.
I whisper to it:
You'll be okay.
This is necessary.
Even though I do not really know if that's true.
It frightens me to watch rooms of my life disappear. Old structure giving way
To see pieces of myself reduced to splinters and ash.
The rot must go.
What is broken cannot remain.
Not because it is worthless—
but because something sacred remains.
Worthy of preservation
Though it feels as if so much of me has been left behind,
trust this:
The walls are not the house.
And when the dust settles,
you will finally see what was there all along.











