Hanging on Hope

I don’t hold hope

like something certain.

I hold it

like the edge of a cliff—

fingers raw,

arms shaking,

refusing to let go

even when the wind

tries to reason with me.

Hope isn’t bright.

It isn’t loud.

It doesn’t always feel

like faith.

Sometimes

it feels like defiance.

Like saying

not yet

to the dark.

Like choosing

one more breath

when the weight in my chest

argues otherwise.

There are days

it thins to a thread—

barely visible,

barely strong enough

to carry my name.

But I’ve learned something

about threads.

They tangle.

They knot.

They hold

more than they look like they can.

I am hanging on hope

not because I’m fearless,

not because I’m sure,

but because I’ve seen

what happens

when I let go.

And I am not ready

to fall back

into the version of me

that mistook surrender

for peace.

So I grip it—

this quiet, stubborn thing.

Even if it frays.

Even if it burns my palms.

Even if all I have

is the smallest whisper

that tomorrow

might not feel

like today.

Sometimes survival

isn’t a leap of faith.

Sometimes

it’s just

refusing

to unclench

your hands.