I would paint the walls
with every beautiful thing I am
and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —
layered thick,
no clean lines,
no apology for the mess.
Joy smeared beside regret,
love dripping into shame,
gold pressed hard
against the bruised colors
no one likes to look at too long.
I wouldn’t fix the edges.
I wouldn’t soften the truth.
There would be laughter
caught mid-breath,
and grief so old
it’s learned how to sit quietly.
There would be nights
I survived out of spite,
and mornings
I stayed for no good reason at all.
It wouldn’t be pretty.
It would be mine.
A room that says:
this person felt deeply,
broke often,
kept going anyway.
A testament to contradictions —
light bleeding into dark,
dark refusing to erase the light.
If anyone stood there long enough,
they’d see it wasn’t destruction
I was trying to leave behind —
it was proof.
Proof that I was here.
That I contained multitudes.
That even the terrible things
never managed
to erase the beautiful ones.
Through the Fog 