Hope In The Darkness. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

Mama, if you're listening, talk to God. Talk to Him about me. Because I can't even tell what I feel anymore. I don't feel sadness or anger—I feel nothing. And yet everything hurts.

The world is colder than I remember. I've forgotten what it means to feel safe. I try to rest my head somewhere, anywhere, but no place feels like home anymore. Not this bed. Not this body. Not this life.

I'm getting older, and I'm still alone. That truth hits like broken glass in my chest. I've carried it for years, but lately, it's starting to cut deeper. I think the time's come for me to go looking for you—wherever you are. Maybe it's heaven. Maybe it's silence. Maybe I just want to stop existing where I hurt so much.

I don't know if I'm desperate or just finally breaking under the weight of this depression. But it's not a phase. It's not attention. It's a war that's lasted 40 years inside my skull. And I'm tired of trying to convince myself it'll ever end.

They call me a coward. An attention seeker. They don't see the battlefield behind my eyes. They don't hear the earthquake inside me—every second of the day—tearing down what's left of my heart and leaving me buried in the rubble of who I used to be.

I've screamed into pillows. I've prayed into the dark. I've stitched together pieces of myself just to make it to the next morning. But now… now I don't know what I'm holding onto.

There's a silence crawling through my soul, and it doesn't want company. It wants stillness. It wants sleep that doesn't end in waking up.

So Mama, if you're out there—don't judge me. Just take my hand, if you can. Take this shattered thing I've become and carry it somewhere soft.

Because 40 years of pain has a voice, and it's whispering that it never goes away.
Maybe it's right.
Maybe I fade.

But before I do, I just want someone to understand that I tried. I really did.