jones over sunrise is a poem written by estefaaano-writes and shared with The Ugly Writers

People shower you with affection,

A sugary mask hiding their hollow desires.

Catching up with old friends? A calculated move,

Their laughter rang hollow in my ears.

Exploiting others’ misfortune, a twisted pleasure,

Fueling the emptiness within their gilded lives.

Life’s a game, they say, but I might just let myself lose.

Never been this high, the feeling of seeing Jesus through bloodshot eyes.

Can’t be okay; Might be okay. The jury’s still out.

Always high, they say, but this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

My body, a temple-turned battlefield, aches with each ragged breath.

I fight, though, because maybe in the ashes of this burning dance,

I’ll find wings, not of smoke, but of hard-won resilience.

High, and a nosebleed paints the floor crimson.

I let it bleed, this ocean of hurt, a baptism in sorrow.

Self-inflicted, a penance for sins I can’t define,

A truth too bitter to swallow, yet impossible to leave behind.

Or maybe it’s surrender, a white flag raised in the dark.

Weaving acceptance from threads of endless night.

Deserve? The word claws at my soul, an echo of whispers.

Making me feel whole, but in a way that chills me to the core.

As I walk through the darkness, you’re not there.

My tears ricochet off the cold walls, mirroring my despair.

You flow through my veins, a poisonous comfort,

But a strange feeling stirs: maybe if I beat you to the punchline,

I won’t get hurt.

“You whisper promises of oblivion,” 

A voice like silk and smoke,

“A sweet escape from the ache that never ends.”

I counter, “But at what cost? My sanity, my soul, my very fate?”

Your laugh, a chilling melody echoing in the emptiness.

“What else do you have? Just pain to embrace.”

But a flicker of defiance sparks within my chest.

“No more, you charlatan. I won’t be your guest.”

Last night, in the hallway’s dim glow, a thought echoed:

If life’s a game, will I make it out alive?

As the city blurs below, 

A kaleidoscope of forgotten dreams, 

The charlatan’s whispers dissolve into the wind. 

In their place, a symphony of silence ignites within, 

A canvas where hope paints its first hesitant strokes.

No longer a puppet tethered to despair, 

I rise, a phoenix forged in the crucible of scars. 

My wings, etched with the stories of battles fought and won, unfurl, 

Tasting the freedom of the open sky.

This leap isn’t a desperate plunge, 

But a defiant dance with destiny. 

I am the author of my redemption, 

The artist of a future bathed in the golden light of self-belief.

The ground rushes closer, not with the threat of oblivion, 

But as a springboard to unimaginable heights. 

Fear surrenders to a fierce ember of possibility, 

A promise whispered in the wind: I will fly.