reluctant pulse

breathing out of habit, not hope

Some days, the pain is just background noise—dull, consistent, like a hum you forget is there until the room goes quiet. Other days, it’s louder. Those are the days when it feels like existing is something I have to survive, not something I get to do. People talk a lot about resilience like it’s a choice. Like getting up again is noble. Like breathing through the ache makes you brave. But most of the time, it doesn’t feel like bravery. It feels like inertia. Like my body didn’t get the memo that I wanted out.

I tried to leave recently - a suicide attempt. And when people found out, they didn’t hold me closer. They pulled away. They treated me like a problem to avoid or a scandal to whisper about. Like my pain was contagious. Or worse, inconvenient. I carry that shame—like the scars under my sleeve, like a warning not to speak. I’m learning to keep quiet about the parts of me that hurt too loudly. I’m learning that saying “I’m not okay” out loud can cost you the little community you thought you had.

This poem is part of something I’m calling The Reluctant Pulse. It’s about that ache. That echo. That quiet, stubborn thing that keeps you here even when you don’t want to be. Not hope exactly. More like muscle memory. The body remembering how to keep going even when the soul forgets.

reluctant pulse

this life is
a slow violence.
not sharp,
not loud—
just the quiet crush
of hope
under the weight of
another day.

people ask,
“are you okay?”
but they don’t wait
for the answer.
and why would they?
the truth is inconvenient.
messy.
ugly.

i tried to go.
really, i did.
but the body is stubborn,
even when the soul is not.
the heart keeps beating
out of habit,
not desire.

there’s no one to call.
no warm arms.
no steady hands.
just this echo
of a life
that doesn’t fit.
i keep breathing
not out of bravery
but exhaustion.
because trying again
takes energy
i don’t have.

and yet—
i write this.
some part of me
still reaching
through the static,
hoping someone hears.
hoping silence
isn’t all that’s left.

…

I don’t know what it means that I’m still here. I don’t have a clean conclusion or a redemptive arc to offer. I just know that silence is heavy, and loneliness only grows in it. Maybe writing this is selfish. Maybe it’s desperate. Or maybe it’s the only language I have left for this kind of pain. I want to believe that someone out there feels this too—that I’m not broken for hurting, not weak for struggling to carry it. I want to believe that even if I don’t have a community yet, the act of reaching is enough to make one possible.

And if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like I do—like you don’t have a place to put all the hurt—just know you’re not the only one. I can’t promise it gets better. But I can promise you’re not alone in the static.

I love you all :3