Deep within, it beats,
unrelenting,
a rhythm neither asked for nor controlled.
It carries the weight of longing,
the ache of loss,
the fierce swell of joy
that almost splits it in two.
It does not pause for breath,
even when you wish it would.
It does not ask for permission,
even when you beg it to stop.
It remembers everything—
every whispered hope,
every scream that tore through silence,
every touch that left a bruise or a balm.
It breaks and rebuilds,
shatters and mends,
over and over,
a cycle of surrender and survival.
There is no peace in its existence,
only the endless tension
between life and silence,
a war fought in crimson tides.
And yet,
even when it falters,
it is relentless.
Not because it must,
but because it chooses to.
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