Borderline

I live on fault lines.

Every step is an earthquake,

every breath a landslide.

I do not walk through the world

I tremble through it.

 

Borderline.

That’s the word they gave me.

As if I exist on some thin edge

between too much and not enough,

between love and ruin.

 

I feel everything

like it’s turned up to eleven.

A whisper sounds like thunder,

a glance can shatter me,

a silence feels like abandonment

carved into bone.

 

They say I’m “too much.”

But tell me,

what is too much?

when my heart beats like a flood,

when my veins are lit matches

looking for oxygen?

 

I am love in its rawest form,

so fierce it burns holes through my chest.

I will hand you the sun with bare hands,

bleeding, smiling, begging,

just don’t leave.

Please.

Don’t leave.

 

And yet,

I’ll push you away with the same fire,

test you until the bridge collapses,

because I can’t trust that love stays

when I barely stay with myself.

 

I am contradiction wrapped in skin.

The saint and the sinner.

The child and the storm.

The arms that reach,

and the hands that destroy

what they long for most.

 

Do not mistake me for fragile.

My survival is an act of rebellion.

Every scar is a roadmap,

every breakdown a resurrection.

I am still here,

even when the world says I shouldn’t be.

 

So yes,

I am borderline

but not on the edge of collapse.

I am on the border

between chaos and creation,

a soul that refuses to numb itself

just to be palatable.

 

And if you listen past the fire,

if you stay through the storm,

you’ll see it:

I am not broken.

I am not monster.

I am a body that feels too much

in a world that teaches us to feel too little.