The Many Deaths of I

Before the first death came, I was everything at once. I was whole but didn't know it.

Wore myself, like borrowed clothing. Spoke
with someone else's voice.
Dreamed in shapes too small for my body.

They said, "Find yourself."
But I was everywhere. In every compromise. In every ache. In every smile that didn't reach my spine.

I didn't lose myself all at once. I died in moments. In fragments. In whispers. Thirty times—each softer and more necessary than the last.

This is not a story of survival. This is a story of shedding.
Of saying "No, not this," until what remains feels like truth.

If you are here, reading, reaching—you've died a few times too. And if you haven't, you will. But don't be afraid.

Sometimes we have to disappear
to become visible.