The War Was With Myself

All this time,

I thought I was fighting the world—

the people who left,

the ghosts that stayed,

the weight that never lifted.

But the truth is uglier.

The war was with myself.

Every battle fought in silence,

every wound I swore didn’t hurt,

every night I begged the mirror

to stop reflecting back a stranger.

I blamed the world for breaking me,

but I was the one holding the hammer.

I kept swinging,

trying to make sense of the pain,

trying to carve something worth saving

out of the wreckage of me.

And maybe that’s what survival really is—

not victory,

not peace,

just the quiet after the fight,

when you finally lay your weapon down

and whisper,

I’m still here.