liminal thoughts, alchemical nights

to the in-between:

where endings unravel

and beginnings

learn to breathe.

when I was loud in all the wrong ways,

when my hands smelled like liquor and bad decisions,

when I mistook self-destruction

for honesty.

And maybe that’s why losing you

felt less like abandonment

and more like being evicted

from the only version of myself

someone fully memorized.

they tell me will help.

weekly therapy.

daily medication.

breathing exercises

i forget to finish.

i am trying

in all the “right” ways—

and still wake up

feeling like i missed something

everyone else understands.

like healing is a test

i keep almost passing

but never quite.

in the middle of surviving.

and that’s the part

no one talks about.

how healing sometimes starts

with everything falling apart first.

you walked away

when i was at my worst—

and maybe i understand why.

but i still think

if you really knew me,

you would’ve stayed

just a little longer.

the version of me

that “let it happen.”

therapy sat me down

and said—

she didn’t let it happen.

she didn’t have a choice.

so now

i hold her differently.

not with blame,

but with the kind of softness

she never received.

that silence could keep the peace.

so i swallowed questions,

bit down on fear,

called it being “good.”

no one noticed

how heavy quiet became

when it had nowhere to go.

therapy taught me

that little me wasn’t weak—

she was surviving

in a language

no child should know.

that thought enduring

was the same as healing.

that girl held her breath

through entire years.

she called it patience.

she called it loyalty.

she called it love.

no one told her

you can drown quietly.

i wish i could go back

and place a hand on her shoulder

and say—

you are allowed

to be saved

by yourself.

out of what hurt me.

decorated it with reasons,

with maybes,

with “they didn’t mean it.”

i kept the lights low

so i wouldn’t have to see clearly.

i thought if i understood enough

it would stop.

it didn’t.

understanding doesn’t undo damage,

it just makes you

a witness to it.

so i left.

not loudly—

just enough

to hear myself again.

like it was mine by birthright.

stitched it into my ribs,

called it “understanding,”

called it “love.”

i knew how to excuse everything

except myself.

i was fluent in forgiveness—

just not the kind

that faced inward.

they said i was strong

because i stayed.

i know now

i was just surviving

in a language i didn’t choose.

strength is leaving.

strength is saying

this was never mine to hold.

to sit across from me

and gently point out

that i deserve better

it’s wild

how hard that was

to believe

for free

i am not responsible

for other people’s emotions

and i nod

like that is brand new information

like i haven’t been

carrying entire rooms

since i was twelve.

i’m standing in a doorway

between who i had to be

and who i get to become

the air feels different here

lighter

but unfamiliar

is praying

for the life

you are currently building

move accordingly

who knew you once

knows you now

growth is allowed

to be private

like court cases anymore

i don’t chase closure

or rewrite endings

i close the door

turn the light off

and let tomorrow

be tomorrow.

a laugh that lands perfectly

sunlight on the wrong day

a song you didn’t skip

not everything needs meaning

sometimes being alive

is enough.

in the way you start bracing

for ordinary conversations

in the way joy feels temporary

and rest feels undeserved

you don’t notice the damage

until someone treats you gently

and your first instinct

is to apologize.