Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

I exist

somewhere between healing

and ruin—

not fully broken,

not fully okay,

just carrying both versions

of myself

at the same time.

One side of me

wants peace.

Wants quiet mornings,

steady hands,

a mind that doesn’t turn

every small hurt

into something catastrophic.

The other side—

the one built from survival—

still waits for things to fall apart.

Still flinches

at softness.

Still searches for exits

in places

that haven’t given me

a reason to run.

And it’s exhausting

living like that.

Wanting to trust life again

while secretly expecting

it to disappoint me.

Wanting love

without believing

it stays.

Wanting to heal

while holding onto pain

like it’s proof

I survived something.

But maybe healing

was never meant

to look graceful.

Maybe it’s messy.

Slow.

Two steps forward

and one memory

pulling you backward again.

Maybe it’s waking up

and choosing

to keep trying anyway.

Even when the past

still echoes.

Even when the weight

hasn’t fully lifted.

Because ruin

would’ve been giving up.

And I didn’t.

Not completely.