Barefoot on Shattered Promises

When hope becomes a hollow space and you finally realize that a storm is never a home.

You taught my heart
how to survive on almosts—
almost chosen,
almost loved,
almost enough.


I wore patience
like a second skin,
stitched myself quiet
so your chaos
would have room to breathe.


But love should not feel
like standing barefoot
on shattered promises,
waiting for the bleeding
to stop on its own.


I kept calling it hope
while it hollowed me out.
Kept mistaking crumbs
for devotion,
silence for peace.


Now I stand here—
not healed,
not untouched,
but finally seeing
that storms are not homes
just because you survived them.


And maybe that’s the saddest part:
I would’ve given you
every soft piece of me
if you had only learned
how to hold something
without breaking it.