Prestige has a short half-life;
my quiet presumption of permanence,
of admiring hums in bright rooms,
fell away without ceremony.
The world dimmed,
momentum drained from days.
My life’s scaffolding collapsed:
small fractures widened into breaks,
and I crumbled with them,
piece by piece
until nothing
remained.
Slowly,
I learned how to breathe in the dark,
cautiously collecting fragments of a stranger self
I was no longer certain I wished to find.