The premise for this is easy it's a space for anyone to share their music or written spoken word. It can be any topic, just a space to share. I'll do mine first.
They tell you to breathe like it’s a magic trick.
Like if I just pull enough oxygen into these lungs,
the anchors tied to my ankles will suddenly turn into balloons.
But some days, the air feels like wool.
Some days, the ceiling is a little lower than it was yesterday,
and the "how are you’s" feel like stones I have to carry
just to keep from screaming.
I am eighteen and I am a radio stuck between stations.
All static. All white noise.
A frequency of "not enough" and "too much"
blurring into a hum that vibrates in my teeth.
I look in the mirror and see a girl I used to know,
back when the sun didn't feel like an interrogation lamp,
back when "later" didn't feel like a threat.
I’m tired of being a "warrior."
I don’t want to wear armor anymore; it’s heavy, and it’s rusting,
and I just want to wear a t-shirt and feel the breeze
without wondering if the wind is trying to knock me over.
But then...
There is this thing.
This tiny, stubborn, annoying pulse of light.
It’s not a bonfire. It’s not a lighthouse.
It’s more like a firefly trapped in a jar—
small, but bright enough to remind me that the dark isn't solid.
The dark is just... empty space.
And space can be filled.
I’m learning that "the other side" isn't a place you arrive at with a suitcase.
It’s a series of small, shaky steps.
It’s choosing to wash my face when the water feels like lead.
It’s finding one song—just one—that makes my fingers tap
before my brain remembers it’s supposed to be sad.
I am reaching.
My fingernails are dirty from clawing at the walls,
but there is a crack in the drywall now.
And there is gold leaking through.
I am not my diagnosis.
I am not the shadow that follows me into the shower.
I am the girl who is still here.
If you’re listening...
If your ribs feel like a cage for a bird that forgot how to sing...
Just stay.
Stay for the morning toast.
Stay for the cold side of the pillow.
Stay because the light is coming,
even if it’s currently stuck in traffic.
The static is clearing.
I can hear the music again.
And this time?
I’m turning the volume up.
They tell you to breathe like it’s a magic trick.
Like if I just pull enough oxygen into these lungs,
the anchors tied to my ankles will suddenly turn into balloons.
But some days, the air feels like wool.
Some days, the ceiling is a little lower than it was yesterday,
and the "how are you’s" feel like stones I have to carry
just to keep from screaming.
I am eighteen and I am a radio stuck between stations.
All static. All white noise.
A frequency of "not enough" and "too much"
blurring into a hum that vibrates in my teeth.
I look in the mirror and see a girl I used to know,
back when the sun didn't feel like an interrogation lamp,
back when "later" didn't feel like a threat.
I’m tired of being a "warrior."
I don’t want to wear armor anymore; it’s heavy, and it’s rusting,
and I just want to wear a t-shirt and feel the breeze
without wondering if the wind is trying to knock me over.
But then...
There is this thing.
This tiny, stubborn, annoying pulse of light.
It’s not a bonfire. It’s not a lighthouse.
It’s more like a firefly trapped in a jar—
small, but bright enough to remind me that the dark isn't solid.
The dark is just... empty space.
And space can be filled.
I’m learning that "the other side" isn't a place you arrive at with a suitcase.
It’s a series of small, shaky steps.
It’s choosing to wash my face when the water feels like lead.
It’s finding one song—just one—that makes my fingers tap
before my brain remembers it’s supposed to be sad.
I am reaching.
My fingernails are dirty from clawing at the walls,
but there is a crack in the drywall now.
And there is gold leaking through.
I am not my diagnosis.
I am not the shadow that follows me into the shower.
I am the girl who is still here.
If you’re listening...
If your ribs feel like a cage for a bird that forgot how to sing...
Just stay.
Stay for the morning toast.
Stay for the cold side of the pillow.
Stay because the light is coming,
even if it’s currently stuck in traffic.
The static is clearing.
I can hear the music again.
And this time?
I’m turning the volume up.
You are on: Forums » Art & Creativity » Music or spoken work