I carry things
nobody can see.
Old conversations.
Unfinished apologies.
The names of people
I still think about
when the world gets quiet.
I carry the weight
of who I used to be,
and the fear
that maybe I haven’t changed
as much as I think.
Some days
I feel like I’m doing better.
I wake up.
Make coffee.
Answer messages.
Laugh at something stupid.
And for a little while,
life feels almost normal.
Then something small
catches me off guard.
A song.
A smell.
A memory
I didn’t ask for.
And suddenly
I’m standing in a version
of my life
I thought I’d already left.
That’s the part
nobody really explains.
You can move forward
and still miss
what’s behind you.
You can know
something was bad for you
and still grieve
the good parts.
You can forgive yourself
and still wish
you’d done things differently.
Maybe healing
isn’t about becoming
someone who never hurts.
Maybe it’s learning
how to carry the hurt
without letting it
make every decision.
I’m not there yet.
I still get angry.
Still overthink.
Still have days
when I look at myself
and wonder
what the fuck
I’m doing with my life.
But I’m trying.
Not in some beautiful,
inspirational way.
Just the ordinary kind.
Getting up.
Doing the next thing.
Choosing not to make
a bad day
into a bad life.
And maybe
that’s enough for now.
Maybe I don’t have to
put everything down
all at once.
Maybe I can carry
what I haven’t healed from
and still make room
for something good.
