Still Coal

If pressure makes diamonds,

how the hell am I still coal?

I’ve been buried long enough.

Pressed by expectations,

by grief,

by every version of myself

that was supposed to turn out better.

I’ve held the weight.

Didn’t crack loudly.

Didn’t fall apart in a way

anyone noticed.

I just stayed dark,

compressed,

waiting for something miraculous

to happen.

They say pressure builds strength.

They say suffering refines you.

They say one day

you’ll shine.

But nobody talks about the waiting—

how long it takes,

how quiet it is,

how easy it is to believe

you’re not becoming anything at all.

Maybe I’m not broken.

Maybe I’m just unfinished.

Maybe not all pressure polishes—

some of it just teaches you

how to survive underground.

So if I’m still coal,

it’s not because I failed.

It’s because transformation

doesn’t happen on a schedule,

and not every miracle

glitters right away.