I don’t hold hope
like something certain.
I hold it
like the edge of a cliff—
fingers raw,
arms shaking,
refusing to let go
even when the wind
tries to reason with me.
Hope isn’t bright.
It isn’t loud.
It doesn’t always feel
like faith.
Sometimes
it feels like defiance.
Like saying
not yet
to the dark.
Like choosing
one more breath
when the weight in my chest
argues otherwise.
There are days
it thins to a thread—
barely visible,
barely strong enough
to carry my name.
But I’ve learned something
about threads.
They tangle.
They knot.
They hold
more than they look like they can.
I am hanging on hope
not because I’m fearless,
not because I’m sure,
but because I’ve seen
what happens
when I let go.
And I am not ready
to fall back
into the version of me
that mistook surrender
for peace.
So I grip it—
this quiet, stubborn thing.
Even if it frays.
Even if it burns my palms.
Even if all I have
is the smallest whisper
that tomorrow
might not feel
like today.
Sometimes survival
isn’t a leap of faith.
Sometimes
it’s just
refusing
to unclench
your hands.
Through the Fog 