I rewrote myself
slowly,
through years-long drafts
I did not plan
to spend
learning the same
lessons.
In my prologue,
I loved people who broke me.
Friends who chipped at my edges
with a dull chisel.
I felt the scars,
but I stayed
too long,
refusing to ask why I kept
sacrificing my name.
My story continued;
nights outlasted my patience.
Evenings refused to end,
well past the exit sign.
I stayed for conversations that circled
and braced for the ones that cut sharp.
Noise passed for belonging then.
Endurance was dressed as loyalty.
I mistook survival for love.
After that came the quiet.
Mornings that did not ask for explanations.
Silence that arrived
only after I had said too much.
Change did not arrive
in a single chapter.
I grew through practice,
repetition,
by deciding to stop
defending.
I carried guilt without ceremony.
I let it sit long enough
to become useful.
When truth finally arrived,
it came without spectacle.
Small.
Inconvenient.
Asking to be overlooked.
I picked it up anyway
and let it rearrange the room.
Eventually, I tested myself
against people stronger
than me,
not to compete,
but to measure
where my muscles failed
and how much weight
they could carry.
Nothing here was accidental,
but it wasnāt all intentional.
Nothing stayed
finished.
I kept writing
because stopping
meant conceding
that this version
of me
was the final draft.
I would like to hear from you
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