Psychosis didn’t break me—
it stretched me thin enough
to see through myself.
At first, I wrestled shadows,
pinned questions to the wall
like trophies,
as if every answer
could stitch the cracks shut.
But survival hums softer—
a lesson in letting go.
Not every thread needs pulling.
Not every echo is a call.
Now, I weigh the cost
of being right
against the price of peace.
Some days, I let the question hang—
untied, unfinished—
and feel the quiet
hold its shape.