I am here—
with bedtime stories
lullabies
and a safe presence
to chase your nightmares away

I don't speak in grand gestures—
just turn pages with soft hands
sing tunes the stars might remember
and tuck your fear beneath warm sheets

When shadows creep up the wall
I stay—
not to fight them
but to show they can't stay long
and must go
as the night listens

You sleep—
and I remain
telling every dark thing
not tonight—
not ever.

I figured out
what we could write down—
two labels
purple and orange—
stitched to different sleeves
but the same letters BFF.

Not just best friends—
but bookmarks
in each other’s stories
highlighted in bold
where the heart paused.

You wear your color
I wear mine—
but side by side
we make something brighter
than either alone.

Some days
the storm is inside me—
a scream that learned manners
a panic attack at the dinner table.

I sit still
pretending the world isn't moving
when really—
it's me
sloshing around inside my ribcage.

I learned that healing is not forgetting—
it's watching the sky go quiet
and not flinching or imploding.
It's trusting the calm
even when I am shaking.

Some days
I anchor myself to the smallest thing—
a cat wanting to be picked up
the smell of toast
the sound of my own breath
not rushing anywhere.

I know now—
it takes practice.
I am learning
to arrive
and so are you—
unforgettable you.

I used to think
healing meant changing—
that I needed to shed old skins
like lobsters do,
like progress does.

The truth is,
I am the guy who wants
to sit in the back
but is always asked to be in front—
who can be a fierce storm
but would rather be the calm after,
still every version of myself,
like laundry I never put away.

We don’t change,
we just learn how
to hold ourselves better,
carry the mess quieter,
make peace with the mirror—
to be less turbulent
and more assertive—
call it healing,
even if it’s not easy.

You are a big part
of everything
that makes me better.

Thank you
for thinking I needed to listen,
thank you for believing
I am too generous to remember myself.
But I don’t feel like an afterthought
in my life—not anymore.

I’ve stopped waiting to be seen.
I see myself now—
in mirrors,
in puddles,
in the snow stretched on a lawn
where no one else is scooped but me,
and the sky that keeps showing up,
soft and unafraid, filled with purple.

There were days
I confused invisibility with peace,
but now—I sit in silence,
and it feels like breathing,
not vanishing.

There were years
I tried to earn love,
like a merit badge for good behavior—
with quiet hands
and a heart willing to split open
just to make someone feel whole.

But now—
I know it doesn’t mean being full of others.
It means being full of life—
even when I’m tired,
even when I’m messy.

I don’t feel like a supporting role anymore.
I am not waiting for someone to write me in.
I am not the pause between someone else’s sentences.
I am the storyteller,
I am the ink,
I am the paper.

And if no one claps at the end—
that’s okay. I was never performing.
I was just being a friend to myself,
with the best seats in the house,
and that is more than enough.

So thank you
for your tenderness, and rage at times.
I hold it in my palms like a gift.
But please know—this life is mine,
and I do not feel like an afterthought in it.
I feel like the beginning
of taking care of myself
when I choose you as a friend—
over and over again.

dread
weighs
heavy
as
anxiety
grabs
hold
and
slowly
kills me