Fissile

For the part of you that has been adored and stepped on, and stopped asking which one was the truth.

A shell speaks. It was made by tide and pressure and slow time, born of a mantle and a disturbance, polished into something beautiful, and then, matter-of-factly, walked over. Not as punishment. Not as malice. Just as the weight of passing through. Being a beloved thing does not protect you from being crushed. These are not opposites. They are the same life, held at once.

For wound-bearers who have stopped waiting for the weight to lift.

Headphones. Let it breathe.