A Razor Between Faith and Madness —a reckoning in quiet ache—

She crosses over,
knowing there’s a cost—
but longing outweighs caution.
She needs more than silence,
more than the echo of her own breath.

She needs proof—
that it isn’t all in her head,
that the veil is thin,
and the dead still watch.

She begs the hush of night,
beckons her mother’s ghost
with hands folded like prayer
and desperation.

She wants what she can’t name—
a truth big enough
to quiet the ache,
to explain why
she always comes last.

She’s tired of drowning quietly.
Tired of whispering her name
into empty rooms
where no one comes for her.

So she tries—
to rescue herself,
to become her own first choice.

But the war inside is cruel.
One part of her clings to sorrow—
a familiar ghost
she’s learned to cradle.

The other part rages against it,
because this kind of ache
hollows the bones,
starves the soul.

She cries out into the beyond,
break the rules,
just once—
show me a sign.

Tell me I mattered.
That I was enough.
That I was loved—
not for performance,
but for presence.

Insanity or faith—
she walks the blade.
A razor between
what is seen
and what is hoped for.

She’s not the only one.
This ache runs in blood—
a ghost-trail,
passed down quietly,
generation after generation.

And the cruelest ache of all:
there is no recording of her mother’s voice.
Only absence where comfort once lived.
She would know it—
if she heard it—
but can no longer summon the sound.

Some parts of life are tender.
But others—
wicked.
Sharp.
Unrelenting.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai