Stuck

I’m stuck here—

in this space between

who I was

and who I fought to become.

And I’m scared.

Not of falling apart loudly.

Not of breaking in some obvious way.

I’m scared of the quiet slide.

The subtle shift.

The old voice clearing its throat

inside my head.

I remember her.

The version of me

that didn’t care

what burned

as long as I felt something.

The one who mistook chaos

for control.

Who called self-destruction

freedom.

Who wore damage

like armor.

I buried her.

Or maybe I just

outgrew her.

But sometimes

when I feel cornered,

when life presses too close

to my ribs,

I feel her move.

Not gone.

Just waiting.

I don’t want to lose control.

I don’t want to wake up

one morning

recognizing the hunger

in my own hands again.

I worked too hard

to soften.

Too hard to breathe

before reacting.

Too hard to choose quiet

over fire.

Being stuck

is better than being reckless.

Stillness

is better than self-sabotage.

If this is the space

between breaking

and becoming—

then I will stand here.

Shaking.

But standing.

Because the fact

that I’m afraid

of going back

means I already know

I don’t belong there anymore.