The Death

Morning after morning, noon after noon, night after night, day after day.

With every step she takes, another wound opens — silent, unseen, yet deeper than the last.

The world begins to bruise her. Every place becomes a reminder, every breath a burden. Even the air within her lungs arrives carrying pain.

And so everything hurts.

Until pain is no longer a feeling, but a shape she wears. A deformity of the soul.

Then comes numbness — soft, quiet, merciless.

Numbness becomes absence. Absence becomes death.

Not the death of flesh, for her body still remains, moving, speaking, existing.

But somewhere along the way, her beautiful soul slipped away, piece by piece, wound by wound.

And when the world finally noticed, she was already gone.

Only the body remained.