Tolls on Burnt Bridges

The hardest part of getting clean

are all the damn apologies—

the ones I owe,

the ones I can’t say,

the ones that taste like regret

and old habits.

It’s paying tolls on bridges

I’ve already burnt,

walking back through smoke

I started myself,

trying to make peace with ghosts

who remember me at my worst.

Recovery isn’t just staying sober.

It’s swallowing pride,

owning the wreckage,

and learning how to rebuild

with hands that once only knew

how to destroy.

And God,

some days it feels impossible—

but I’m still here,

paying the tolls,

crossing the ashes,

trying anyway.