Requiem of a Soul

A Poem by Rhen

Every six months, I restart my life. Not because I want to, but because the walls begin to close in, the colours fade, and suddenly the skin I've been wearing no longer fits.

The days turn into weeks. The weeks become a quiet funeral for another version of myself.

I've lived so many lives I can no longer tell you which one was real.

Every six months, I gather the shattered pieces of my identity from the floor and convince myself that this arrangement will finally make a person.

But glass remembers every break.

The edges never soften.

Each piece draws blood as I press it into place, desperate to finish before the whole thing collapses again.

I sit among the wreckage, surrounded by old dreams, old names, old futures that I swore were destiny.

A doctor. An artist. A lover. A stranger.

Every version of me felt permanent until it wasn't.

I mourn people who never died. I grieve futures that never happened. I abandon myself before anyone else can.

And still, every six months, I begin again.

Not because I'm hopeful.

Because I don't know how not to.