Story of My Life

Story of my life—

always halfway somewhere.

Half over it.

Half still hoping.

Half healed.

Half wrecked.

Too aware

of what’s wrong

and somehow

still repeating it.

I leave doors cracked

for people

who already walked out.

Replay conversations

like maybe this time

the ending changes.

Say I’m done

while still checking

for signs

I shouldn’t care about.

I call it moving on

when really

I’m just dragging

old versions of pain

into new rooms.

I get good

at surviving things

I should’ve never

had to survive.

Good at smiling

through exhaustion.

Good at saying

“I’m fine”

with a straight face.

Good at making chaos

look manageable.

Story of my life—

wanting softness

but wearing armor.

Wanting peace

while feeding the thoughts

that steal it.

Wanting to be loved

without knowing

what to do

when someone gets close enough

to actually try.

But somehow—

despite all of it—

I’m still here.

Still trying.

Still becoming

something other than

the worst chapters.

Maybe that’s the story too.