I wasn’t meant for the Fairytale

Keeping it a lil bruised and deeply honest about the struggles I’ve faced..

Maybe I Wasn’t Meant for the Fairytale

I don’t think happy endings
were written with my name in mind.
I learned early how to survive,
not how to be saved.

I wasn’t born holy.
I was born hungry—
for love, for safety,
for something that didn’t leave.

I’ve worn the word addict
like a scarlet letter
stitched by people
who never asked why I bled.

I made mistakes loud enough
to echo.
Choices that still introduce themselves
before I get the chance to speak.

I come from a place
where hope is rationed
and dreams are handed down
already worn thin.
Eastern Kentucky taught me
how to carry weight,
not how to put it down.

Sometimes I wonder
if the ending was decided early—
if being poor, being broken,
being too much and not enough
was always going to cost me joy.

I try to be good now.
I love like it might be the last time.
I apologize to my past
and keep moving anyway.

Still, there’s a fear
that no matter how clean my hands become,
the world will remember
where they’ve been.

But listen—
I am still here.
Still choosing growth over bitterness,
still believing healing counts
even when it isn’t rewarded.

Maybe my happily ever after
isn’t a finish line.
Maybe it’s waking up
and choosing myself
again.

Maybe it’s peace
without permission.
Love without proving.
An ending that doesn’t erase my past
but refuses to let it win.

And if the fairytale never comes—
then I’ll write something truer.
A life that says
I was worthy
even when nothing was promised.