I remember you.

Curled on the floor, drunk or dissociating—did it even matter?
You stared at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t.

It never did.

You made deals with the dark.

Begged it to take you.

Lied to everyone… especially yourself
that you were fine.

You weren’t fine.
You called silence peace,
but it was just the absence of noise you couldn’t bear.

You thought being numb meant you were strong.
It just meant you were dying slower.
You hated the mirror.

I don’t blame you.

I hated it too,
but I look in it now
and I see someone who crawled out of your grave.

I remember the taste of metal.
I remember the weight in your hand.
I remember the moment you almost made it permanent.
You didn’t.

I know you thought healing was a lie.
That this version of us would never exist.
But here I am.

I don’t forgive you for everything.
But I understand you.
And I’m not going back.