Not Forever

I don’t want

forever

to come in an orange bottle.

Don’t want my mornings

measured in milligrams,

my stability

scheduled between refills,

my future

printed in tiny pharmacy text

I can barely read.

I know what they say—

that this is help,

that this is balance,

that this is how I stay

safe

and here.

And part of me

is grateful.

Because I remember

what life felt like

before the quiet

was possible.

But another part of me

keeps whispering:

Is this the only way?

Will I ever stand

without the scaffolding?

Will healing ever mean

freedom instead of maintenance?

I don’t want to fight

the people trying to help me.

I don’t want to romanticize

the chaos I survived.

I just want to believe

there is a version of living

where my body

knows how to be steady

on its own.

Where peace

isn’t borrowed.

Where calm

isn’t counted.

Where staying alive

doesn’t feel like

a prescription.

Maybe forever

isn’t the point.

Maybe the point

is staying

long enough

to grow into someone

who has choices

I can’t see yet.

So for now

I hold two truths

at the same time—

I don’t want this

to be forever.

And I still want

to be here

long enough

to find out

what isn’t.