Fucked Up

I know I’m fucked up.

You don’t have to tell me.

I’ve spent enough nights

inside my own head

collecting evidence.

Every bad decision.

Every person I hurt.

Every bridge I burned

then stood beside

wondering why

I had nowhere left to cross.

I know.

I know I’ve mistaken chaos

for something familiar enough

to call home.

I’ve pushed away

what felt too good

and chased things

that made me miserable.

I’ve begged people to stay

then made myself impossible

to stand beside.

I’ve wanted peace

and somehow

kept choosing war.

That’s fucked up.

But what nobody asks

is how you get that way.

How many times

something has to hurt

before pain becomes

your first language.

How long you have to survive

before survival habits

start looking like

personality flaws.

None of that excuses me.

There are apologies

I still owe.

Things I’d undo

if regret had hands.

Versions of myself

I wish I could sit down with

and ask,

What the fuck were you thinking?

But I already know.

I was hurting.

And hurt

doesn’t always make you gentle.

Sometimes it makes you angry.

Reckless.

Distant.

Sometimes it makes you destroy

the very things

you were terrified

of losing.

So yeah—

I’m fucked up.

But I’m also aware of it now.

And maybe that matters.

Because I don’t want

to spend the rest of my life

using my wounds

as permission

to keep creating new ones.

I can’t rewrite

who I’ve been.

But I can decide

who gets my name

from here.

And maybe someday

I’ll look back

at this version of me—

messy,

ashamed,

trying like hell—

and realize

I wasn’t fucked up.

I was unfinished.