Rock Bottom

I hate rock bottom,

but I’m good at digging holes—

hands blistered from familiar work,

knowing exactly where the ground gives way.

I tell myself I’m searching for answers,

for something buried worth finding,

but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,

proving I still know how to disappear.

Rock bottom scares me

because it asks me to stop digging,

to stand still with the damage,

to look at what’s left

instead of what I can destroy next.

Digging feels like control.

Like movement.

Like I’m doing something

instead of admitting I’m tired.

But every hole looks the same

after a while—

dark, quiet, convincing.

I don’t fall because I don’t know better.

I fall because climbing feels

like hope,

and hope feels dangerous

when you’ve been let down before.

Still—

even with dirt under my nails,

even with gravity winning again—

some part of me keeps looking up,

measuring the distance,

wondering what it would take

to stop digging

and start building

instead.