Still Here

Some days

I move like a question

no one bothered to answer—

half-formed,

half-finished,

carrying pieces of myself

that don’t quite fit anymore.

I’ve tried to outrun it—

the weight,

the noise,

the quiet kind of ache

that doesn’t scream

but never really leaves.

But it follows.

In the pauses.

In the way I hesitate

before saying I’m okay.

In the way I’ve learned

to sit with silence

like it’s something

I deserve.

And still—

I wake up.

Still—

I breathe

even when it feels

like effort.

Still—

some small part of me

keeps reaching

for something softer

than what I’ve known.

I don’t always believe

in better.

But I believe

in this—

that I’m still here,

still standing

in the middle of it all,

and maybe

that means

something hasn’t given up on me yet.