My notebooks are the only damn place I can be completely open. Where my truth don’t need permission. Where the pen don’t interrupt. Where the paper don’t flinch. It just listens. Receives. Lets me bleed and turn the page.
I carry oceans of remorse. Not ripples, oceans. For the violence I caused both the kind I planned,
and the kind that erupted like fire from a cracked soul. But the real wound? I justified it. Gave it names. Causes. Wrapped that savage in excuses, folded it into a pocket I could pull from like a weapon, again and again.
And with that truth, comes days, not weeks anymore, but days, where I still can’t face the mirror. Because when I see me…I see him. That version of me. The one who would've shattered the glass, just to feel the cut. Just to bleed out the guilt in silence. But I’m learning. God, I’m learning.
That version of me, he’s a ghost. Dead and buried, but not forgotten. I visit his grave when I need to remember what not to become again. I carry his lessons like scars I refuse to hide. And every day I wake, I try to write a better ending. A better man. Today. Tomorrow. And beyond.
