Still Here, not Finished

raw reflection on survival & loss & strength it takes to keep going when life breaks u

I learned survival
the way some people learn prayer—
repetition,
knuckles white,
hoping something hears me.

There are nights
I inventory my losses
like they might come back
if I count them right.
Names.
Rooms.
Versions of myself
that trusted too early.

They tell you time heals,
but time just teaches you
how to walk
without asking
what’s still broken.

I am not soft anymore.
I am careful.
There’s a difference
no one warns you about.

Still—
I wake up.
Still—
I reach for light
even when it burns.
That has to mean something.

If pain was meant to end me,
it should have learned by now:
I’m still here,
and I’m not done
making meaning out of the mess.