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With no one else around to speak these truths, I write them to myself. I feel the weight of where I stand, realizing I’ve often let my own self down rather than saved my soul. I’ve been submerged in the deepest shades of black, holding on to the smallest ray of hope just for a breath of air. There’s no one to entrust these burdens to, no one to hold my hand in the dark. That is why I want to rise and declare I’m fine on my own.
When everything around me tempts me to sink deeper, I allow myself to break—feeling the fall, embracing the failure—then gather those lessons for a lifetime. Even so, a dark fear lingers: if I shatter completely, who will stay to piece me back together? Love feels like idle chatter. In life, only blood and self matter. So I choose to be healthy for me alone, to walk and run for my own spirit.
Yet, I struggle with the idea of self-happiness. I chase after those who once abandoned me; that is my weakness, and I must live with it. I won’t comfort myself with the notion that “everything happens for a reason”—not out loud, at least. One day, I may discover that reason for myself, when I see my scarred heart still beating, surviving despite every crack. Only then might I truly believe that everything happens for a reason.
Time has been long, and words from others have done nothing for me. They were thrown around to show off someone else’s greatness, never to show genuine love. So once again, I remind myself: love is chatter; in life, only blood and self truly matter.
I am me, and that must be enough.
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Me. Future.
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