It Scares Me

It scares me

how fast my mind can go there—

how something small

can open a door

I didn’t mean to touch.

Like there’s a version of me

that knows the way out too well,

that whispers in quiet moments

when everything feels too heavy

to carry again.

I don’t always believe it—

but I hear it.

And that’s enough

to make my hands still,

to make me sit with myself

a little longer

than I want to.

Because there’s another part—

quieter,

harder to hear—

the one that stays.

The one that waits

for the storm to pass

even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

The one that knows

these thoughts

aren’t the same

as truth.

So I stay.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because I have answers.

But because something in me

is still choosing

to be here—

even when it scares me

how close the edge

can feel.