I keep writing the story where my forgiveness is stitched in the fabric.
Where they look at me with eyes of hope.
I keep writing the story where I push them away first.
Convincing myself I was the strong one.
I keep writing the story where they accept me
And I run away because I know it isn't true.
In every story I'm the version of myself whose not disillusioned
Whose wisdom is more than her joy.
In every story I know what I did and I didn't think people would forget.
Sitting here after is like sitting surrounded by floor plans of a thousand to be built houses.
Sitting knowing that I've already built the house.
I've already made my bed.
And now I must lie in it.
Knowing I never made the right choice to change those plans in the first place.
It's drafty and it's empty.
And the wind whispers over and over.
I can never call this sanctuary.
The furniture is in the wrong color, the paint already cracked.
It smells like crack in here.
I can't leave.
So I stay outside in the garden. In the rain. And ignore the ugly house.
And all of my shame.
I laugh with them at my own stupidity.
Even as my eyes burn.
Even as my soul yearns.
Living as a mockery just to be chosen slightly.
I keep writing me as the party but the story keeps calling me a joke.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 11:54 AM UTC
I keep writing the story where my forgiveness is stitched in the fabric.
Where they look at me with eyes of hope.
I keep writing the story where I push them away first.
Convincing myself I was the strong one.
I keep writing the story where they accept me
And I run away because I know it isn't true.
In every story I'm the version of myself whose not disillusioned
Whose wisdom is more than her joy.
In every story I know what I did and I didn't think people would forget.
Sitting here after is like sitting surrounded by floor plans of a thousand to be built houses.
Sitting knowing that I've already built the house.
I've already made my bed.
And now I must lie in it.
Knowing I never made the right choice to change those plans in the first place.
It's drafty and it's empty.
And the wind whispers over and over.
I can never call this sanctuary.
The furniture is in the wrong color, the paint already cracked.
It smells like crack in here.
I can't leave.
So I stay outside in the garden. In the rain. And ignore the ugly house.
And all of my shame.
I laugh with them at my own stupidity.
Even as my eyes burn.
Even as my soul yearns.
Living as a mockery just to be chosen slightly.
I keep writing me as the party but the story keeps calling me a joke.
