Amelia James Poetry

I’ve turned over every stone,
counted every crack in the walls of memory—
still no answer.

I’ve read the words until they blurred,
marked the places they lied,
where I begged for truth and found silence instead.

But the question stays.
It hums beneath my skin,
it drips through the cracks of every sleepless night:

Why?

Why did they choose ruin over honesty?
Why did their comfort cost me my sanity?
Why was my heart collateral damage in a war I never started?

And if there’s no answer,
what am I supposed to do with the wreckage?
What am I supposed to do
with all these stones
that I’ve already turned
that still don’t speak?

I built altars of forgiveness,
burned offerings of grace—
but the ghosts don’t leave.
They linger in the questions.
They haunt the spaces I kept clean,
the letters I never sent,
the apologies I whispered to a God
who didn’t stop any of it.

And still: Why?

Is there some cosmic lesson in this cruelty?
Did their shadows make me stronger,
or just tired?
Am I braver now,
or just better at pretending I don’t care?

I stitched my own heart back together
with threads of almost-answers,
with scraps of “maybe this was meant for something.”
But every night it unravels again.

Every night the question claws at my ribs,
because I loved real,
and they didn’t.
Because I would’ve set myself on fire to keep them warm,
and they watched me burn.

And if no one answers—
if the sky stays silent,
if the stones stay still—

Why?

-Amelia James