Still Coal

They say pressure makes diamonds—

like it’s a promise,

like if you endure enough

something beautiful

is guaranteed.

Like all this weight

means something.

But I’ve been under it—

the expectations,

the breaking points,

the nights that felt like

they’d cave in on me

if I breathed too wrong.

And I’m still here

feeling like coal.

Still rough.

Still dark in places

I can’t quite polish away.

Still carrying the marks

of everything that pressed down

and didn’t turn me

into something people admire.

So what’s the difference?

Is it time?

Is it pressure?

Or is it the way

some things break

before they ever get the chance

to become anything else?

Because no one talks about that—

how pressure

doesn’t always transform.

Sometimes

it just weighs.

Sometimes

it just leaves you

exactly where you started—

only more aware

of how much you can carry

without changing at all.

But maybe—

maybe being coal

isn’t failure.

Maybe it means

I haven’t hardened

into something unbreakable,

haven’t lost the parts of me

that still feel,

that still bend

instead of shatter.

Maybe I’m not finished.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

Not what they promised

I’d become.

But still here.

Still holding

the same fire

that made them believe

in diamonds

in the first place.