Wei-Yen Liao
Please,
when I cry, the air turns vibrant —
a quake, choking the breath of stillness.
My knees buckle,
the earth feels like drowning,
mudslides swallowing resolve.
A needle twists in my arm,
like memories that sting,
like the cold cleanse of wounds
burning away what I cannot keep.
Cramps coil deep in my being,
gripping the shadows that whisper —
“You cannot live.”
Standing at the abyss.
Wanting to live but powerless to act,
wanting to surrender yet tethered —
because when I look back,
you are still here.
And that is enough
to hold on for one more breath, to
take one more step
away from the edge.
CLAMOR 