Broken

No one tells you the world begins broken. By the time you arrive, something's already unraveling— a thread in your chest, a silence between your ribs. They hand you a life like a gift, but forget to mention how heavy the ribbon is. You can build something beautiful and still watch it burn. Do everything right and still be left. Not because you failed— but because that's how loss works. The worst things come without warning. In silence. In sirens. In sentences that don't end with answers. Even there, in the hollow— something holy stays. Not fixing. Just present. And some nights, that's enough.