It’s strange how people talk about falling
like gravity just does all the work.
Like trust is a reflex.
Like opening a hand you’ve kept balled in a fist for years
is just a matter of relaxing your muscles,
and not its own terrifying miracle.
People stare at the walls
but rarely ask who poured the concrete.
They don’t see the ghosts in the mortar.
The people who left.
The quiet betrayals.
The hard-learned lesson that hearing “I love you”
often comes from the mouths of those whose imprints became wounds that never healed.
Or the ones that formed a scab,
only to be ripped off and left bleeding once again.
So I learned the architecture of survival.
How to carry my own heavy weight.
How to stitch my own cuts.
How to be the roof, the locked door, and the guard dog.
I became my own home.
But the catch about a deadbolt is
it locks out the warmth just as effectively as the danger.
And lately,
my hand has been lingering on the latch.
Not because I need a rescue mission.
I don’t.
I’ve pulled myself out of tough waves enough times to avoid sinking;
I always find my way to the shore.
But because beneath the heavy iron of all this independence,
The othere is a version of me
that is just so tired.
A version that just wants to be seen.
A version that wants a safe harbor
more than an empty room.
A version that wants to be known
without bracing for impact
or scanning for hurt.
To be held
without keeping a record of debts.
To cry
without calling myself dramatic.
To need
without feeling like a failure.
To soften
without fearing my bones will break.
Maybe that’s the actual terror.
Not the hurt.
I know the shape of hurt. I’ve survived it.
Not the leaving.
I survived that, too.
Maybe the real terror
is dropping the armor on the floor
and realizing
I don’t know who I am without the weight of it.
Still,
there is a quiet thought in the back of my mind,
slowly outgrowing the panic.
Asking:
what if safety isn’t a fortress?
what if it’s just an exhale?
Waiting for permission to breathe.
Permission to be seen.
Permission to drop the act.
Permission to stop performing survival
every single waking moment.
Permission to be soft,
and know it doesn't mean I’m made of glass that can easily be broken,
just beauty found througph transparency.
Maybe it’s time I pack and switch locations.
And maybe,
just maybe,
the walls were never supposed to be my permanent address.
Just a place to catch my breath
until I was ready
for the sun again.