In the Shadow of a Suitcase
![[English] A suitcase… It stands before me like a sealed past. No matter how far I go, its contents always follow. Beneath it, a few boxes of pills. Small, silent witnesses. Each one a proof of the day my body whispered, “endure.” Every pill swallowed feels like a little less hope remaining. And on top of the suitcase, a shadow falls… My shadow. But sometimes even I don’t recognize it. Because this shadow isn’t only mine. It’s the system’s weight pressing down on me. For being “too much,” for being “different,” for daring to be “seen.” To be queer, to be a refugee— it’s to breathe and drown at the same time. You want to live, yet each day you live feels a little more like dying. Health, you say? Here, health is not a right… It’s an exam. You must leave a thousand identities behind just to pass through one door. Say “I’m trans,” and their eyes change. Say “I’m a refugee,” and the doors close. Sometimes I sit beside that suitcase, staring at the pills… Each one whispers to me: “Hold on, your place is still not here.” But even my shadow exhausts me now. Because sometimes, even your own shadow abandons you. Still… A quiet sentence runs through me: “They broke me, but I’m still here.” And that sentence becomes the heaviest suitcase my heart will ever carry.](https://liminality.ch/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/CH-ZH-PV-TW-1_1.jpeg "In the Shadow of a Suitcase")
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A suitcase… It stands before me like a sealed past. No matter how far I go, its contents always follow. Beneath it, a few boxes of pills. Small, silent witnesses. Each one a proof of the day my body whispered, “endure.” Every pill swallowed feels like a little less hope remaining. And on top of the suitcase, a shadow falls… My shadow. But sometimes even I don’t recognize it. Because this shadow isn’t only mine. It’s the system’s weight pressing down on me. For being “too much,” for being “different,” for daring to be “seen.” To be queer, to be a refugee— it’s to breathe and drown at the same time. You want to live, yet each day you live feels a little more like dying. Health, you say? Here, health is not a right… It’s an exam. You must leave a thousand identities behind just to pass through one door. Say “I’m trans,” and their eyes change. Say “I’m a refugee,” and the doors close. Sometimes I sit beside that suitcase, staring at the pills… Each one whispers to me: “Hold on, your place is still not here.” But even my shadow exhausts me now. Because sometimes, even your own shadow abandons you. Still… A quiet sentence runs through me: “They broke me, but I’m still here.” And that sentence becomes the heaviest suitcase my heart will ever carry.