I've always wondered—
If baby carriers worn at six o’clock,
Or slings drawn close to the chest—
Which is better?
One cradles a mother’s aching spine,
The other calms a child’s frantic breath.

Does one weigh less,
Or simply feel lighter
Because love shifts the gravity?
Is it comfort or convenience,
A whisper to the world
Or a hush to the soul?

It’s like life—
One posture pleases the crowd,
The other holds you closer to yourself.

So tell me—
Which one would you be?
The back that bears with quiet strength,
Or the chest that beats with knowing warmth?
Would you give ease to others,
Or peace to your own aching pulse?

I wonder still—
But maybe,
Maybe I’d be both.

You imagine hands cradling you,
Lulling you into soft oblivion—
If you had that,
The real would seem useless,
An echo,
An extra limb.

But if you lacked it,
You’d claw at the real,
Cling to bone and breath,
Hoping the world
Would mirror your mind.

And guess what?
I’ve always had those arms—
In my head.
They held me when no one did.
Made me brave.
Made me distant.
Standoffish.
Steel-willed.

Still...
I wonder
What the real thing feels like.
Would it anchor me,
Or make me unravel?

Does that longing make me greedy—
Or just human?

It takes strength to look inside,
To figure your stand—
Your war, your battles,
And to surrender.

To understand that pain—
No matter the site,
The origin,
The type—
Still stings the same
When the world moves on without you.

To see you're the only one held back,
While life goes on like nothing cracked.
Your agony?
Whoosh—
Gone with the wind
Of other people's better days.

But it takes a hero—
A Hugo for you—
To know:
This is your fight alone.

That moving forward
Doesn’t always mean healing.
That sometimes,
Standing still
Is surviving.

I’ve always been a crooked road,
Lain with thorns,
While roses watched in silence from the side.
I let myself go—
Unraveled,
Each choice trembling
At the whisper that choice should bend
To circumstance.

They say I should shift—
Mirror the view.
But when I do,
The real me starts to panic.

She is a storm unprobed,
A force better left unnamed.
I walk contradiction—
Each truth I am
Cancels out another.

But still, I remain.

I won’t drain my cup
For hands that never pour.
And I don’t expect the same—
I don’t want to be poured from an empty cup too.

Top of my game,
Top of my aim,
Top of my speed —
You crave that.
Down on my game,
Down on me,
You shun that.

Silence. Echoes.
I love them.
They remind me
Of loneliness.

Dark clouds — those days —
Gift me
A clearer view
Of my circle.

Groveling through snow,
Through fog,
I understand
Why most company
Means nothing.

If I once gave
A Cheshire smile,
Played the jester —
I can't now.
Not until I’m fixed.

So when I get the urge
To saunter away —
Do you blame me?

Should you fill my shoes,
Or allow me
To make the decision
For us — alone?
Should you be my light
When it's pretty sketchy,
Or wait —
Hoping I fix myself?

Because maybe,
Just maybe —
To saunter past you
Is the best
I can do.

You were told —
You're rookies.
Interns.
Bottom of the food chain.
Nothing you do matters
Mainly by nobody's
Not your nights, not your notes,
Not the weight in your chest
When a patient won’t wake.
You all think you’ll change the world,
They laughed.
Fast forward—
Reality checked in cold scrubs.
Now you own everything.
If it’s broken,
It’s on you.
If it heals,
You get no name.
No thanks.
What’s wrong?
You.
What’s right?
You feel good, maybe.
But don't get cocky.
You keep tabs.
You pass info—
Forward, backward,
Up the chain,
Down the drain.
And maybe—
just maybe—
you won’t make a **** difference.
No statues,
No speeches.
No glory.
But if you do nothing...
If you bow out—
It might tinge your soul.
Not with fire.
But with a quiet,
Lasting rot.
So suit up.
You’re still a rookie.
But you showed up.
And that
still
means
something.

Being resurrected feels—
over the top.
Not a soft bloom from cocoon to wing,
but a clash—good and bad
in a lover’s war dance,
polar opposites snapping in place.

It doesn’t ease you,
it jolts.
Eyes torn open
to galaxies stitched in silence,
to a world behind this world,
or maybe beneath,
or maybe so small
it hums in your atoms.

You glimpse what most can’t—
a wisdom not taught
but poured,
an empathy not for them,
but born within—
a private ache,
a knowing.

It carries weight, yes,
but mostly,
liberation.

That this bubble—
this self-made sky—
is just big enough
to hold your world alone.

Just you.
And that is enough.