A personal poetry collection

Let Me
Leave

Love. Loss. Regret. Exhaustion. The things I should have said sooner, and the things I’m finally learning how to say.

18 poems4 chaptersPersonal collection
I

The Weight

The things I carried until carrying them started to feel normal.

II

The Damage

Love, regret, absence, and finally understanding what happened after it happened.

III

Let Me Leave

The words that are hardest to admit out loud.

IV

Still Here

What comes after. Not a happy ending. Just whatever comes next.

About

The Collection

Let Me Leave is a personal record of what it feels like when love, identity, grief, regret, and survival all occupy the same room. It is not a neat recovery story. It is a record of being hurt, being accountable, being uncertain, and still being here long enough to write the next page.

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Let Me Leave

Heavy

I think the hardest things to carry
are the ones that aren't completely gone.

A marriage still on my finger
but not in my home.

A best friend I can still talk to
but can't reach the way I used to.

An "I love you"
followed by
"I don't know."

Do you know how heavy
"I don't know" becomes
when you carry it every day?

I do.

I've gotten good at carrying things.

I carry conversations
long after they've ended.

I carry every place
I should've done better.

Every moment I went quiet
when I should've spoken.

Every version of myself
I think might have changed something
if I'd become him sooner.

I carry plans.

Ideas.

Things I build with my own hands
because creating something from nothing
makes me feel like maybe
I can still do that with myself.

So I keep building.

Keep fixing.

Keep finding the broken part
and telling myself
there has to be a way
to make it work.

That's the dangerous thing
about learning how to fix things.

Eventually you start believing
everything can be repaired.

And maybe some things can't.

I carry that too.

I carry the man I was.

The man I should've been.

The man I'm trying like hell
to become.

And somewhere underneath all of them
is just me,

wanting my best friend back.

Not the marriage.

Not the promises.

Not some perfect ending
where everything magically becomes
what it used to be.

Just her.

The person I used to turn toward
when life got heavy.

That's the cruel part.

The person I want to help me carry this

is part of what I'm carrying.

So when you ask me
what's wrong

and I say,

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

I'm not lying.

I am tired.

I just don't know
how to explain

that some things weigh so much

you stop feeling the weight

and start thinking
that's just what your body
feels like now.
Let Me Leave

Five in the Morning

Five in the morning
is a dangerous time to know yourself.

Nobody needs anything from me yet.

No messages.

No questions.

No pretending I've got somewhere to be.

Just me
and a house quiet enough
to hear everything I've been avoiding.

I think about her.

Of course I do.

I wonder if she's sleeping.

I wonder if I still cross her mind
when the room gets quiet too.

I wonder if she misses me
or just misses who I was
before everything got so fucking complicated.

Then I start doing that thing
I promised myself I'd stop doing.

Rewriting history.

Finding the exact sentence
I should have said.

The night I should have listened.

The moment I should have noticed
the distance between us
was becoming somewhere
she could actually live.

I build entire timelines
where I figured myself out sooner.

Where I didn't shut down.

Where silence wasn't the only language
I knew how to speak
when I was scared.

In those versions,

she stays.

Five in the morning
is full of versions of my life
that never happened.

So I reach for something I can control.

I build.

An app.

An idea.

A page.

Anything with a problem
that has an answer.

Code doesn't look at me
and say it doesn't know
if it wants me anymore.

A broken button
doesn't have history.

If something doesn't work,
I can stare at it long enough,
change enough pieces,

and eventually

it works.

I wish people were that simple.

I wish I were.

Sometimes the sun starts coming up
before I realize
I've been awake all night.

And for a few minutes
the room changes color.

Nothing is fixed.

She's still somewhere else.

I'm still trying to become someone
I should've learned how to be years ago.

I still don't know
what happens to us.

But there's something on the screen
that didn't exist yesterday.

Something I made.

And lately
I've been collecting those little proofs.

Proof I can finish something.

Proof I can learn.

Proof my hands are good
for more than holding onto things
that are already leaving.

Then the rest of the world wakes up.

And I close all the conversations
I had with ghosts.

Take whatever I managed to build
in the dark,

and carry it with me

into morning.
Let Me Leave

Fine

"How are you?"

Fine.

I've said it so many times
it doesn't even feel like a lie anymore.

It's just what comes after the question.

Like "thank you"
after someone holds the door.

Fine.

It's easier than saying
my wife loves me
but doesn't know if she wants me.

Easier than explaining
how you can be married
and still feel completely alone.

Easier than saying
I miss my best friend
while knowing she's still alive.

Fine.

Because what else am I supposed to say?

That some days
I look at my life
and can't figure out
when I stopped recognizing it?

That I'm thirty-four
and somehow still learning things
everyone else seems to have learned
before adulthood?

How to stand on my own.

How to keep moving
when nobody is pulling me forward.

How to say what I'm feeling
before it turns into silence.

How to be needed less
without believing
I'm wanted less too.

Fine.

It's easier than talking about work.

About money.

About the embarrassment
of needing help with things
I think a grown man
should already know how to handle.

Easier than admitting
how quickly "I'm struggling"
becomes

"I'm failing"

inside my own head.

Fine.

Meanwhile I'm building things.

Learning things.

Making something out of nothing
one stupid little piece at a time.

People see that part.

They see the jokes.

The ideas.

The things I finish.

They don't see me staring at the ceiling
wondering whether becoming better now
matters to someone
who needed me to become better then.

They don't see how badly
I want to show her

Look.

I'm trying.

Look.

I'm learning.

Look at me.

Please.

I'm not done yet.

But I can't say that every time
someone asks how I'm doing.

Most people aren't asking
for the autobiography.

They're being polite.

And some days
I don't have the strength
to hear my own answer anyway.

So I give them the version
that fits into one word.

Fine.

Short.

Clean.

Nothing spilling out.

Then I smile.

Maybe make a joke.

Ask how they've been.

And they walk away
thinking they know the answer.

Fine.

It's incredible

how much pain

you can fit

inside four letters.
Let Me Leave

Things I Don’t Say

I go quiet.

That's what I do.

Not because I don't care.

Not because I have nothing to say.

Jesus,

it's almost never
because I have nothing to say.

It's because suddenly
I have everything to say

and no idea
which word won't make it worse.

So I say nothing.

I've spent years
mistaking silence for control.

If I don't say the angry thing,
I'm not angry.

If I don't say I'm scared,
I'm not afraid.

If I don't tell you
I need you,

then you can't tell me
you don't need me back.

Simple.

Except silence doesn't make
anything disappear.

It just makes the other person
guess.

And eventually
she got tired of guessing.

I understand that now.

I understand a lot of things now.

That's becoming
a recurring fucking problem.

Understanding things
after they mattered.

I can tell you exactly
what I should have said.

Now.

I should have said,

I'm scared.

I should have said,

I don't know how to fix this.

I should have said,

when you pull away
something inside me panics
and I don't know how to tell you
without sounding like I'm asking you
to carry me.

I should have said,

I know I'm shutting down.

Please don't mistake that
for me not loving you.

Instead,

nothing.

A whole fucking dictionary
inside my chest

and I gave her

nothing.

I wonder sometimes
how many arguments
weren't really arguments.

How many were just two people
standing on opposite sides
of something I refused to name.

She needed a partner.

I became a locked door.

And the fucked up part is

behind that door

I was begging her
not to leave.

She just couldn't hear me.

Nobody could.

I've always been good
at disappearing
without going anywhere.

Smile.

Joke.

Change the subject.

Go quiet.

Wait until the feeling passes.

Except some feelings don't pass.

Some people stop knocking.

And then one day
you finally learn how to open the door

and there's nobody
standing on the other side.

So I'm trying something different now.

I'm saying things.

Badly sometimes.

Too late sometimes.

Probably too much sometimes.

But I'm saying them.

Because I finally understand
that loving someone silently
doesn't make the silence
feel like love.

And there are things
I will probably spend years
wishing I had said sooner.

But this isn't going to be
one of them:

I loved you
every single time
I went quiet.

I just didn't know
how to make the words

survive the trip

from inside me

to you.
Let Me Leave

Wanted, Not Needed

You said you wanted to be wanted,
not needed.

I don't think you knew
how long that sentence
would live inside me.

At first
I thought they were the same thing.

Need.

Want.

Love.

Different words
for reaching for the same person
when the world gets too heavy.

And I reached for you.

God,
I reached for you.

When I didn't know what to do,
I asked you.

When I didn't know where to go,
I followed you.

When life scared me,
I stood behind you
and called it standing beside you.

I thought that was love.

Maybe sometimes it was.

But somewhere along the way
I handed you so many pieces of my life
that loving me became a job.

And you were tired.

I see that now.

That's the part that hurts.

I see so much now.

I see all the invisible things
you carried
while I was busy believing
we were carrying them together.

I see how often
"I need you"
probably stopped sounding romantic.

How eventually
it might have sounded like

I can't do this without you.

And maybe even

you aren't allowed to stop.

I never meant to make you responsible
for keeping me standing.

I swear to God
I didn't.

I just trusted you
with all the places in me
I didn't trust myself.

And I thought
that was what husbands did.

I thought giving you
every vulnerable part of me
meant I loved you completely.

I didn't understand
that eventually
you might need somewhere
to put your own weight.

And I wasn't strong enough
to hold it.

So you said

you wanted to be wanted,

not needed.

And something inside me
collapsed.

Because how do you explain
to the person you love

that underneath all that need

was want?

I wanted you.

I wanted your laugh
when something caught you off guard.

I wanted the conversations
that went nowhere.

I wanted to tell you
the stupid thing that happened
because you were always
the person I told.

I wanted to sit beside you
without needing anything at all.

I wanted my best friend.

I still do.

But I buried all of that want
under so much need
that eventually
you couldn't see it anymore.

Maybe neither could I.

So now I'm learning.

I'm learning how to stand
without reaching for your hand
every time my knees shake.

I'm learning things
I should have learned years ago.

How to take care of myself.

How to make decisions.

How to be alone
without treating loneliness
like an emergency.

And every time I figure out
something new,

there's this stupid little part of me
that wants to run to you.

Look.

Look what I did.

I did it myself.

Aren't you proud of me?

And then I realize

even becoming independent
still makes me want
to turn toward you.

Maybe that's the difference.

I don't want you back
because I can't survive without you.

I'm learning that I can.

That's what makes this hurt
so much more.

Because after everything,

after learning how to stand,

after discovering
that the world doesn't end
when I have to carry myself,

I look around
at all this new strength
I never wanted to need

and there is still
one thing I haven't learned
how to stop doing.

Wanting you.

Not because I need someone.

Not because I'm afraid
to be alone.

Not because I need you
to save me.

Just because

out of everyone
in this enormous fucking world,

when something beautiful happens,

you're still the first person

I wish was standing beside me.
Let Me Leave

Empty Side of the Bed

Your side of the bed
is still your side.

That's stupid, isn't it?

You're not here.

There's nobody stopping me
from sleeping in the middle.

Nobody asking me to move over.

Nobody stealing blankets
or shifting beside me
in the middle of the night.

The whole bed is mine now.

And somehow
I have less room than ever.

I stay on my side.

Like my body remembers
a promise
my life doesn't know
how to keep anymore.

Sometimes I wake up
and for half a second
everything is normal.

That tiny space
between sleeping and knowing.

Before I remember.

Before the room comes back.

Before my hand reaches
toward a place
that hasn't been warm
in a long time.

That's the cruelest part
of waking up.

My brain remembers you're gone
slower than my body does.

There are nights
I swear I can feel the mattress move.

Nothing dramatic.

Just the smallest shift.

The kind I used to ignore
because there would always be
another night.

Funny how ordinary things
become sacred
once they're gone.

I miss your weight
beside me.

I miss hearing you breathe.

I miss being annoyed
by things
I would give anything
to be annoyed by again.

I miss not knowing
I was going to miss them.

People talk about heartbreak
like something explodes.

Like there's screaming.

Doors slamming.

Something obvious enough
that everyone knows
where the damage happened.

Mine sounds like nothing.

A quiet room.

A fan.

A phone glowing
too late at night.

Me turning over
because I can't get comfortable

and realizing

comfort used to have a heartbeat.

You're still alive.

That's what makes this grief
so difficult to explain.

I didn't lose you
in the way people understand losing.

There was no funeral.

No flowers.

No room full of people
telling me they're sorry.

I can still hear your voice.

I can still talk to you.

I can still tell you
I love you

and hear you say it back.

Do you know
how beautiful

and fucking devastating

that is?

To still have someone's love

but not their pillow
next to yours?

To know the person
you'd normally crawl into bed beside
when your heart hurts

is the reason
you're lying awake?

Sometimes I wonder
if you have moments like this too.

If your body ever forgets.

If you ever reach for me
before remembering
you decided you needed space.

I hope you don't.

I hope you're sleeping.

That's love too, I guess.

Wanting someone to rest peacefully

while you're staring
at their empty side of the bed.

I used to think loneliness
meant having nobody.

I know better now.

Loneliness is having someone
you could recognize
with your eyes closed

and still having to learn

how to sleep

without them.
Let Me Leave

Almost

We were going to see the world.

That's the part
nobody tells you
you'll have to grieve.

Not just the memories.

The ones you never got to make.

We talked about places
like they were already ours.

Cities we'd never walked through.

Oceans we'd never seen together.

Little restaurants
where we'd probably order something wrong
and laugh about it anyway.

Somewhere out there
are sunsets
I already pictured beside you.

We were going on a cruise next year.

Next year.

Two words
I used to say
without being afraid of them.

We talked about it
like next year belonged to us.

Where we'd go.

What we'd do.

Probably spend too much money.

Probably take too many pictures.

Probably come home exhausted
and say we needed a vacation
from our vacation.

Normal things.

Stupid things.

Things I would've forgotten
were miracles
while they were happening.

And then there was the biggest plan.

The one we had to wait for.

A family.

After the tumor disappeared.

After the fear.

After doctors and waiting
and all those moments
where the future stopped being something
we could casually assume.

After all of that,

we were going to begin.

I held onto that.

Someday
there would be a little person
with pieces of you
and pieces of me.

Maybe your eyes.

God,
I would've wanted your eyes.

Maybe my sense of humor.

Hopefully not
all of my bad habits.

I wondered what kind of dad
I would be.

I wondered what you'd look like
holding our child.

I never told you
how many times
I pictured that.

Maybe I should have.

There's another thing
for the pile.

We would've been terrified.

I know that.

We would've had no fucking idea
what we were doing.

But I thought
we'd figure it out together.

That was always the plan.

Together.

That's what hurts
about almost.

Almost doesn't leave photographs.

There are no souvenirs
from the cruise we didn't take.

No pictures
from the countries
we didn't visit.

No tiny socks
lost underneath the couch.

No first words.

No sleepless nights.

No little voice
calling us Mom and Dad.

Nothing tangible
to prove those things
were ever real.

But they were real to me.

They existed
every time we said

someday.

Every time we said

next year.

Every time we said

when this is over.

I had an entire life
with you
that only existed
in the future.

And I loved it.

I loved places
I'd never been.

I loved mornings
that never happened.

I loved a child
who never existed.

Because all of them
had you in them.

Maybe that's why
I keep looking backward.

Because looking forward
used to mean looking at you.

Now I don't know
what's there.

I'm trying to learn.

Trying to imagine
a future that belongs to me
before it belongs to anyone else.

But sometimes
I still accidentally picture ours.

The cruise.

The plane tickets.

The ridiculous family photos.

You holding a baby
with your eyes.

Me standing beside you
probably scared out of my mind

and happier
than I knew how to say.

Then I remember.

Almost.

Such a small word

for an entire lifetime

that didn't happen.
Let Me Leave

The Villain in Your Version

I wonder how you tell our story.

Not to me.

I know the version
you tell me.

I mean when I'm not there.

When someone asks
what happened.

When they ask why you left.

What do you say about me?

Sometimes I imagine it.

And in your version,

I'm probably the villain.

That used to piss me off.

Because I know what I meant.

I know I loved you.

I know I never woke up
and decided

today
I'm going to make her feel alone.

I never planned
to become another thing
you had to carry.

I never wanted you
lying beside me
wondering how someone
could be so close

and still feel so far away.

But intention
is a comfortable place to hide.

I didn't mean to.

I didn't know.

I was struggling too.

All true.

None of them erase
what it felt like
to be you.

That's been one
of the hardest things
I've had to learn.

I don't get to decide
which version of me
you survived.

Maybe in your story

I'm the husband
who needed too much.

The man who went quiet
when you needed words.

The person you kept waiting on
to become a partner
instead of another responsibility.

Maybe you asked for things
so many times
that eventually asking
felt more exhausting
than doing them yourself.

Maybe there were nights
you looked at me

and wondered

why loving me
felt so much like work.

Fuck.

I hate writing that.

Because I want to defend him.

The man I was.

I know what was happening
inside him.

I know he was scared.

I know he didn't have
half the tools
he pretended to have.

I know some days
he was barely holding himself together.

I know he loved you.

He loved you
so fucking much.

But love doesn't automatically
make someone good at loving.

That's the sentence
I wish I'd learned sooner.

Maybe I would've listened differently.

Maybe I would've understood
that you weren't attacking me
when you told me
you were tired.

Maybe I wouldn't have heard

I'm failing

every time you were really saying

I need my husband.

I turned your pain
into evidence against myself

and then got so busy
defending myself from it

that I forgot

you were the one hurting.

I'm sorry for that.

Not the desperate kind of sorry.

Not

please come home.

Not

look how much I've changed.

Not a bargaining chip
dressed like an apology.

Just

I'm sorry.

You deserved to feel heard
before losing you
taught me how to listen.

You deserved a partner
before loneliness
taught me how to stand alone.

You deserved the version of me
I'm trying to become

when you were still asking
the old one to show up.

And maybe that's my punishment.

Not losing you.

Not sleeping alone.

Not wondering
what happens next.

It's knowing

I finally understand
some of the things
you were trying to tell me

when understanding them
can't undo a single night
you spent feeling alone.

So if I'm the villain
in your version,

I won't tell you
that you're wrong.

I won't rewrite your pain
just so I can live easier
with mine.

But I hope somewhere
in your story

you remember

the villain loved you.

Badly sometimes.

Quietly sometimes.

Too dependently sometimes.

But completely.

And he's finally learning

that loving someone completely

and loving someone well

are not always

the same thing.
Let Me Leave

Let Me Leave

Let me leave.

Not because I hate you. Not because you weren't enough. Not because I never loved this life.

I'm just tired of being asked to carry it because putting it down would hurt somebody else.

You tell me to stay and call it love.

You tell me about everyone I'd break, everyone who would miss me, every wound my absence would leave behind.

But you never ask what staying costs me.

You never count those wounds.

You call leaving selfish while asking me to wake up tomorrow to the same weight, the same ache, the same quiet war I've already fought a thousand times.

Stay for your family. Stay for your friends. Stay for the people who love you.

Always for someone else.

How many pieces of myself am I supposed to hand out before I'm allowed to admit there's nothing left?

I don't want another speech about strength.

I don't want to hear how brave I am for surviving something I never wanted to survive.

I don't want promises that everything gets better.

I just want someone to look at how tired I am without immediately asking me for one more day.

Don't make my suffering prove my love for you.

Don't call me selfish because I finally said this hurts more than you understand.

Just once,

before you ask me to stay,

listen when I say

let me leave.
Let Me Leave

Stay

I stayed.

I don't know if people understand
how little that sentence
can mean

and how much.

I didn't wake up one morning
and decide life was beautiful.

There was no sunrise
that changed everything.

No song.

No speech.

No sudden realization
that I had so much to live for.

Some days

I just didn't leave.

That's it.

There were nights
when tomorrow felt less like a gift
and more like another bill
I couldn't afford.

People told me

stay.

Think about everyone who loves you.

Stay.

It'll get better.

Stay.

You're stronger than you think.

And I know they meant well.

I know they were scared.

But sometimes
being told you're strong
when you're exhausted

feels like being handed
another fucking box to carry.

So I stopped trying
to stay forever.

Forever was too heavy.

I stayed for an hour.

Then another.

Sometimes I stayed
because somebody called.

Sometimes because a friend
showed up and helped me clean
a kitchen I'd stopped caring about.

Sometimes because my brothers
were coming over.

Sometimes because there was something
I hadn't finished building yet.

A button that didn't work.

An idea I wanted to see
outside my head.

Something stupid enough
to survive until tomorrow for.

Sometimes I stayed
because I loved her.

Sometimes I stayed
because I was angry.

Sometimes I stayed
because dying felt like making
one final decision

on a night when I couldn't trust myself
to decide what I wanted for dinner.

And sometimes

I don't know why I stayed.

I just did.

That's the truth
nobody puts on inspirational posters.

Survival isn't always brave.

Sometimes it's accidental.

Sometimes it's procrastination.

Sometimes it's staring at the ceiling
until morning
because you couldn't figure out
what else to do.

Sometimes the heroic thing
looks exactly like

doing nothing.

I used to think staying
meant I had chosen life.

I don't think that's true anymore.

Sometimes staying
just means

I haven't chosen anything yet.

And maybe that's enough.

Because morning doesn't ask
why you're still here.

It just arrives.

And lately

I've started noticing things.

Small things.

I made something
that didn't exist before.

I laughed
and didn't have to fake it.

Someone messaged me
because they actually wanted
to talk to me.

I caught myself thinking
about something next week

without realizing

I'd just assumed
I would be there.

That one scared me.

Then it didn't.

I'm not going to tell you
everything is better.

It isn't.

There are still nights.

There is still an empty side
of the bed.

There is still a future
I have to learn
how to imagine differently.

There are still things
inside me
I don't know how to carry.

But I'm beginning to understand

I don't have to carry
the rest of my life tonight.

Tonight,

I only have to stay
until tomorrow.

And tomorrow,

if it gets heavy again,

I'll make the same deal.

Not forever.

Not because I'm strong.

Not because somebody
needs me to prove I love them.

Just

one more hour.

One more stupid idea.

One more laugh
I didn't see coming.

One more morning
I haven't met yet.

I don't know
where any of this ends.

But for now,

I'm still here.

And for the first time
in a while,

I'm starting to wonder

what happens

if I stay.
Let Me Leave

The Cruelty of Stay

Everybody loves the word
stay.

It sounds beautiful
when you're not the one
being asked to do it.

Stay.

Four letters
people throw like a rope

without asking
what it's tied to.

I know why you say it.

I do.

You love me.

You're scared.

The thought of an empty chair
where I used to sit
makes something inside you panic.

So you tell me about tomorrow.

About everyone who needs me.

About everything
I haven't seen yet.

And maybe you're right.

Maybe tomorrow
has something waiting for me.

But there were nights
when tomorrow wasn't hope.

Tomorrow was a threat.

Another morning
inside a life
I didn't know how to live.

Another day
waking up as a man
I didn't recognize anymore.

A husband
who made his wife feel alone.

A grown man
still learning things
he thought he should've known
years ago.

Someone looking around
at an empty kitchen,

an empty bank account,

an empty side of the bed,

wondering how the fuck
his whole life
learned the same word.

Empty.

And you said

stay.

For her.

For your family.

For your friends.

For everyone
who would have to live
with the hole you left behind.

I heard you.

I swear to God
I heard you.

But there were nights
when all I could hear was

your pain will hurt us
if you stop carrying it.

So carry it.

Please.

For us.

And I know
that's not what you meant.

That's just what it sounded like
from underwater.

Because pain
changes the language.

Love becomes obligation.

Concern becomes guilt.

Tomorrow becomes punishment.

And stay

can start sounding less like

I love you

and more like

keep hurting
so we don't have to.

That's the cruelty of stay.

Not the word itself.

Not the people saying it.

The cruelty is asking someone
to keep fighting

without ever climbing
into the fight with them.

There were moments
I didn't need another reason
to live.

I needed someone
to understand
why I didn't want to.

Not agree.

Not tell me leaving
was the answer.

Just understand.

Just sit beside me
without turning my suffering
into a debate.

Without reminding me
how lucky I was.

Without telling me
other people had it worse.

Without making me promise
some enormous future
when I could barely survive
the next ten minutes.

Just say

I see you.

I see how tired you are.

You don't have to convince me
that this hurts.

Because when someone is drowning,

screaming

SWIM

from the shore

isn't rescue.

Get in the fucking water.

That's what I needed.

And eventually,

people did.

A friend walked into a home
I'd stopped taking care of

and helped me clean it.

Not my life.

Not my head.

The kitchen.

Something small.

Something real.

Something we could actually fix.

My brothers came.

People sat with me.

Talked to me.

Made plans with me.

And nobody magically
put me back together.

They just made sure
I wasn't falling apart alone.

That mattered.

More than every speech.

More than every promise
that things would get better.

More than being told
how strong I was.

They didn't give me
a reason to stay forever.

They helped me survive
long enough
to find my own reasons.

An idea.

Something I wanted to build.

A laugh that escaped
before I remembered
I was supposed to be miserable.

A conversation
I didn't want to end.

A tomorrow
I accidentally planned for.

Little things.

Ridiculously little things.

But when you're drowning,

you don't need someone
to hand you the whole shore.

You need something
you can reach.

I understand that now.

There is a difference

between asking someone to stay

and helping them stay.

So if I ever end up
back in that darkness,

don't give me forever.

Forever is too fucking heavy.

Don't hand me everyone
who would miss me.

I already love them.

That's part of the weight.

Don't stand on the shore
and explain why drowning
would inconvenience everyone
waiting on land.

Come closer.

Sit down.

Stay with me
inside the hour
I'm actually living.

Help me carry five minutes.

Then five more.

And if morning comes,

don't turn it into a lesson.

Don't say

See?

I told you things get better.

Maybe they did.

Maybe they didn't.

Maybe I was simply here
long enough
for the darkness to move
a few inches.

Make some coffee.

Sit beside me.

Talk about something stupid.

And understand

that sometimes

the kindest way
to ask someone to stay

is to stop asking

and make sure

they don't have to stay

alone.
Let Me Leave

Don't Call Me Strong

Don't call me strong.

Please.

I know you mean it
as a compliment.

I know you're looking
at everything I've survived
and trying to give it meaning.

But don't.

Strong sounds too much
like I chose this.

Like I stood in front of life,
cracked my knuckles,

and said

give me your worst.

I didn't.

I was scared.

I was exhausted.

There were days
I couldn't take care of my own home.

Days a kitchen
felt like evidence
of everything wrong with me.

Days somebody else
had to walk into my mess
and help me start.

That's not the story
people like telling.

They want the version
where I pulled myself up.

Where I found something
deep inside myself.

Where I fought.

Where I overcame.

Sometimes I didn't.

Sometimes someone else
carried the part of me
I couldn't lift.

Sometimes my brothers showed up.

Sometimes a friend did.

Sometimes I survived a night
because there were people coming
the next day.

Sometimes I just smoked
until my thoughts
stopped screaming long enough
for me to breathe.

There was nothing noble about it.

I was coping.

Badly.

Desperately.

However I fucking could.

Don't call me strong.

I watched my marriage
turn into a question mark.

I listened to the woman I love
tell me she wanted to be wanted

instead of needed

and realized

I had spent years
confusing the two.

I learned how lonely
a bed can become
without changing size.

I learned you can hear

I love you

from the person you love most

and still go home alone.

I learned there are futures
you can grieve
without ever having lived them.

A cruise.

Countries.

A family.

A child
I had already imagined loving.

And somehow

I'm supposed to look at all of that
and be proud
that it didn't kill me.

Don't call me strong.

You don't know
how many times
I would've traded strength

for ordinary.

I didn't want character development.

I wanted my wife.

I wanted my best friend.

I wanted money in the bank
and food in the kitchen
and some boring fucking problem
that didn't require me
to reinvent myself.

I wanted to complain
about bills

and laundry

and whose turn it was
to do something around the house.

I wanted the life
I didn't realize
was already enough.

Instead,

I got lessons.

So many fucking lessons.

How to stand alone.

How to speak.

How to ask for help.

How to build something.

How to keep going
when nobody can promise me
where going leads.

And yes,

I'm learning.

Yes,

I'm changing.

Yes,

there are things I can do now
that terrified me before.

But don't look at the man
who crawled out of the wreckage

and compliment him
for surviving the crash.

Ask him
if he's hurt.

Because I am.

I'm still hurt.

Some days I'm doing great.

Some days I laugh
and mean it.

Some days I build something
and look at it
with this stupid little pride

because

I made that.

Me.

Some days
I almost recognize myself again.

And then something happens.

A song.

A quiet room.

An idea
I instinctively want to tell her.

And suddenly

I'm right back inside
everything I lost.

Strength doesn't stop that.

Growth doesn't stop that.

Survival doesn't mean
the wound disappeared.

It just means
the wound didn't get
the final word.

So don't call me strong.

Sit beside me.

Ask how I'm doing

and mean it.

Let me say

terrible

without immediately trying
to turn terrible
into temporary.

Let me be tired.

Let me be angry.

Let me miss her.

Let me admit
that some days
I don't feel inspirational.

I feel like a man
whose life broke

and who is still
picking through the pieces

deciding what belongs
in whatever comes next.

Maybe one day
I'll call that strength.

Maybe.

But right now

I don't need to be strong.

I've been strong
because there wasn't
another fucking option.

What I need

is permission

to finally admit

how much

it hurt.
Let Me Leave

No Light at the End

People kept telling me
there was light
at the end of the tunnel.

I hated that.

Because I looked.

I fucking looked.

There was no light.

There was just more tunnel.

More questions.

More nights
in a bed that suddenly
felt too big.

More mornings
where I remembered my life
before my feet
even touched the floor.

More

I love you

followed by

I don't know.

More learning.

More rebuilding.

More discovering
how many pieces of adulthood
I'd let somebody else
carry for me.

And somewhere
at the end of all that,

apparently,

light.

Everyone seemed so sure.

I wasn't.

I couldn't picture
the good ending.

That's what scared me.

Ask me what I wanted
five years from now

and my mind went blank.

Because five years from now
used to have her in it.

We had plans.

Places.

A cruise.

A family
after the tumor was gone.

A whole collection
of someday.

Then someday disappeared

and people expected me
to immediately start drawing
a new future.

I couldn't.

I didn't want
a different future.

I wanted mine back.

So when people told me

you'll find someone else,

I wanted to scream.

Someone else?

Like she was a job opening?

Like I could replace
the person whose face
was attached to every version
of tomorrow
I'd ever bothered imagining?

I didn't want someone else.

I wanted her.

And when I couldn't have
the life I'd pictured,

I didn't know
what I was supposed
to picture instead.

So there was no light.

I'm not going to lie
and say there was.

There were days
I couldn't see anything
worth walking toward.

But here's the strange part.

I kept walking anyway.

Not heroically.

Not confidently.

Half the time
I didn't even realize
that's what I was doing.

I learned something.

Built something.

Made a joke.

Talked to someone.

Got through another night.

Then another.

Tiny movements.

So small
they didn't feel like progress.

I kept waiting
for some enormous breakthrough.

For the music to swell.

For life to grab me
by the shoulders
and explain why
all of this had to happen.

It never did.

Instead,

one day

I caught myself
working on something
I wanted to finish tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

There it was again.

Not a promise.

Not hope.

Just a word
I had accidentally
started using normally.

Another day
I laughed.

Really laughed.

Then felt guilty about it.

Like grief might think
I was cheating.

Like being okay
for thirty seconds
meant she hadn't mattered.

That's another thing
nobody tells you.

Sometimes when you've been hurting
for long enough,

feeling better
can feel like betrayal.

But I laughed anyway.

And nothing disappeared.

I still loved her.

I still missed her.

The bed was still half empty.

The future was still unwritten.

But for thirty seconds

I wasn't inside the tunnel.

I was just alive.

Maybe that's where
I got it wrong.

Maybe there isn't
a light at the end.

Maybe that's too simple.

Maybe nobody walks
through enough darkness
and gets rewarded
with permanent daylight.

Maybe the tunnel
doesn't end cleanly.

Maybe there are just cracks.

Small ones.

A friend showing up.

My brothers sitting with me.

Something I built
finally working.

A conversation
that made the night
a little shorter.

A stupid joke
at exactly the right time.

Tiny pieces of light

getting in
where they can.

And maybe that's enough
to see the next few feet.

I still can't tell you
what my life looks like
five years from now.

I still don't know
whether she comes back.

I don't know
whether the future
I wanted is gone

or simply changing
into something
I can't recognize yet.

And I'm done pretending
that uncertainty
doesn't scare the hell out of me.

There are still nights
with no light.

Still moments
where I look ahead

and see absolutely nothing.

But I'm learning

nothing I can see

and nothing there

are not the same thing.

So I don't need
the end of the tunnel anymore.

I don't need somebody
to promise me
there's sunshine waiting.

Just give me enough light
to see where my foot
goes next.

I'll put it there.

Then I'll look again.
Let Me Leave

Tomorrow

Tomorrow used to be easy.

It was just the day
after today.

Nothing profound.

Nothing terrifying.

Tomorrow meant work.

Dinner.

Some stupid thing
I forgot to do.

Another night beside her.

Another morning
where I assumed
the person I loved
would still be part of the life
I was waking up to.

I never appreciated
how ordinary tomorrow was.

Then everything changed.

And suddenly

tomorrow became a question.

What happens now?

Where do I go?

What happens to us?

Does she come home?

Do we fix this?

Do we divorce?

Do I eventually stop
checking my phone
hoping her name appears?

Do I meet someone else?

Do I even want to?

What happens to the cruise?

What happens to the countries
we were going to see?

What happens to the family
we talked about starting
when the tumor was finally behind us?

What happens
to the version of me
who thought he knew
what tomorrow looked like?

Nobody tells you
how exhausting uncertainty is.

At least grief
has something to point at.

This happened.

They're gone.

It's over.

But I didn't have over.

I had

maybe.

Maybe we fix it.

Maybe we don't.

Maybe she needs time.

Maybe time brings her back.

Maybe time teaches her
she's happier without me.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

There are nights
I think that word
has hurt me more
than no ever could.

No has walls.

You eventually learn
the dimensions of the room.

Maybe is a hallway
that never fucking ends.

So I kept walking it.

Looking for signs.

Reading messages twice.

Noticing punctuation.

Wondering whether
I love you

meant

I still choose you

or

I love you
but I can't do this anymore.

Trying to predict my entire life
from the tone
of three sentences.

That's no way to live.

I know that now.

Knowing it
and stopping it
are different things.

I'm still learning.

There were days
I wanted tomorrow
because maybe tomorrow
she'd change her mind.

Maybe tomorrow
she'd miss me enough.

Maybe tomorrow
she'd look at everything
I'm trying to become

and see the man
she was waiting for.

Then I realized

I was still building my life
around her answer.

Still standing
outside a door

waiting for someone else
to tell me
whether I was allowed
to walk forward.

That's not fair to her.

And it's killing me.

So tomorrow
has to become mine again.

God,

I hate writing that.

Because part of me
doesn't want mine.

I want ours.

I want the boring tomorrow.

Her beside me.

Plans on the calendar.

Something thawing
for dinner.

A cruise next year.

Someday
becoming a family.

I want to complain
about ordinary life
without realizing
ordinary life
is exactly what
I'm going to miss.

But wanting it
doesn't make it mine.

Not anymore.

Maybe someday it will be again.

Maybe it won't.

There's that fucking word.

Maybe.

So here's what I'm trying.

Tomorrow
I'm going to wake up.

That's the whole plan.

Not fix my marriage.

Not reinvent myself.

Not figure out
the next thirty years.

Wake up.

Feed myself.

Take care of something.

Build something.

Answer somebody.

Laugh if something is funny
without feeling guilty
that I managed to enjoy it.

Miss her
when I miss her.

Cry
when it gets through.

Keep learning
how to be a person
I can depend on.

Then go to bed.

And if tomorrow
turns into another tomorrow,

I'll do it again.

Maybe somewhere in there
I'll become the man
I'm trying to become.

Maybe she sees him.

Maybe she doesn't.

I'm finally beginning
to understand

he still has to exist
either way.

That's hard.

That might be
the hardest thing
I've learned yet.

I can't become better
as an audition.

I can't heal
with one eye on the door
waiting to see
if she walks through it.

I can't make tomorrow
a hostage negotiation
with yesterday.

Tomorrow has to be allowed
to happen

even if it isn't
the tomorrow
I wanted.

So I don't know
what happens to us.

I don't know
who sleeps beside me
five years from now.

I don't know
what countries I'll see

or whether I'll ever stand
on that cruise ship

or whether someday
I'll hold a child
and remember the first one
I ever imagined.

I don't know.

And for once

I'm trying not to turn
I don't know

into the end of the world.

Tomorrow used to be a promise.

Then it became a threat.

Then a question.

Now

I'm trying to let it be
what it was
before I became afraid of it.

Just the day
after today.

And if I make it there,

I'll figure out
what to call it

when it arrives.
Let Me Leave

Morning Came Anyway

Morning came anyway.

I remember being almost offended by that.

Like the sun
hadn't been paying attention.

Didn't it know?

My marriage was falling apart.

My wife wasn't beside me.

I didn't know
what the fuck I was doing
with my life.

I had spent half the night
staring at a phone

and the other half
staring at a ceiling.

Surely that was enough
to cancel sunrise.

Apparently not.

Morning came anyway.

Light pushed through the window
like nothing had happened.

Cars drove by.

People went to work.

Somebody somewhere
was probably pissed off
because their coffee order was wrong.

And I remember thinking

how can the world
still be this normal?

Don't you people know
my life is ending?

Of course it wasn't.

It just felt like it.

That's another thing
pain does.

It makes everything
feel final.

This feeling?

Forever.

This loneliness?

Forever.

This empty bed?

Forever.

This version of me
sitting in a house
I barely recognize?

Forever.

Pain loves that word.

Forever.

Morning doesn't.

Morning only knows

again.

So it came again.

And again.

And again.

Some mornings
I hated it.

Some mornings
I slept through as much of it
as I could.

Some mornings
getting out of bed
felt less like waking up

and more like accepting
terms and conditions
I hadn't fucking read.

But eventually

my feet touched the floor.

Not because I was ready.

Because I had to piss.

There's your inspirational quote.

Sometimes survival
starts with a full bladder.

I walked through the house.

Saw the mess.

Saw all the little evidence
of a man
who had stopped participating
in his own life.

And I hated myself for it.

Until someone helped.

A friend came over
and helped me clean.

Not metaphorically.

There wasn't some beautiful
movie montage
where we repaired my soul.

We cleaned the fucking kitchen.

Trash.

Dishes.

Counters.

Ordinary things.

But afterward

I stood there
looking at a room
that looked a little less
like how I felt inside.

And something about that mattered.

Not enough
to fix me.

Enough
to make breakfast.

That's how it happened.

Not one transformation.

A thousand embarrassingly
small decisions.

Take a shower.

Answer the message.

Schedule the interview.

Learn the thing.

Fix the button.

Eat something.

Go outside.

Talk.

For God's sake,

talk.

And every time
I managed one,

morning came again.

Eventually
I started building things.

At first
because I needed somewhere
to put my brain.

Then because I liked it.

Then because I realized

I was actually
kind of fucking good at it.

That surprised me.

I needed surprising.

For so long
every discovery about myself
had felt like another flaw.

Something I should've known.

Something I should've learned.

Something she had been carrying
because I couldn't.

Then suddenly

here was something different.

Look what I can do.

Not

look what I should've done.

Not

look what I ruined.

Just

look what I can do.

I wish I could tell you
that was the moment
everything changed.

It wasn't.

I still cried.

Still missed her.

Still reached for my phone
when something happened
because some habits
are built deeper than thought.

Still wanted to show her
everything I made.

Still wanted her to say

I'm proud of you.

Still sometimes imagined
the life we planned.

The cruise.

The world.

The family.

Still wondered
whether there was some version
of tomorrow
where we found our way back.

But morning kept coming

whether I had answers or not.

That's what it taught me.

Life doesn't wait
for certainty.

You don't finish grieving
and then continue.

You don't solve yourself
and then participate.

You participate

unfinished.

You make breakfast
while heartbroken.

You laugh
while missing someone.

You build something
while your life
is still under construction.

You love someone
without knowing
whether they'll stay.

You wake up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I used to think
surviving meant defeating something.

Now I think
sometimes survival
is much less impressive.

Sometimes

morning comes.

And you're still here
to be annoyed by it.

So you get up.

Maybe slowly.

Maybe angry.

Maybe with swollen eyes
and yesterday
still sitting heavy
inside your chest.

But you get up.

Not because everything
is going to be okay.

I don't know that.

Neither do you.

You get up because

morning came anyway.

And somehow,

so did you.
Let Me Leave

Breathing

Some days
I did nothing.

I need to stop being ashamed
of that.

I didn't build anything.

Didn't fix anything.

Didn't learn some profound lesson
about myself.

Didn't become
a better man.

I woke up.

Breathed.

Went back to sleep.

For a while
I thought those days
didn't count.

Because I've spent so much time lately
trying to prove

I'm changing.

Look.

I cleaned.

Look.

I learned this.

Look.

I built something.

Look.

I can take care of myself.

Look at me.

Please.

Look at me.

I'm getting better.

And somewhere along the way

healing became another fucking job
I was terrified of failing.

I started measuring myself
by productivity.

If I built something,

good day.

If I learned something,

progress.

If I laughed,

healing.

If I cried?

Setback.

If I stayed in bed?

Failure.

If I missed her too much?

Apparently I hadn't grown enough.

That's bullshit.

I know that now.

Some mornings
I still wake up
and she's the first thing
my mind finds.

Before my phone.

Before the room.

Before myself.

Her.

And there are days
that hurts enough
to steal the rest of the morning.

So I breathe.

In.

Out.

Nothing poetic about it.

My lungs don't care
that my marriage is complicated.

They don't care
about the cruise.

Or the family.

Or the empty side of the bed.

They don't care
whether I'm becoming
the man I should've been.

They just keep going.

In.

Out.

I've started respecting that.

My body has carried me
through things
my mind was convinced
were impossible.

It kept my heart beating
on nights
I wasn't particularly grateful
for the favor.

It woke me up
when waking up
felt cruel.

It asked for food
when I didn't care enough
to eat.

Asked for sleep
when my brain wanted
to replay every mistake
I'd ever made.

Asked for air

again

and again

and again.

And I gave it air.

Sometimes
that was all I gave it.

But I'm still here.

Maybe I need to stop
making survival audition
for the right to be called progress.

Maybe breathing counts.

Maybe eating something counts.

Maybe showering
after two bad days counts.

Maybe answering one message.

Maybe cleaning one plate.

Maybe standing outside
for five minutes.

Maybe crying so hard
my chest hurts

and then taking
another breath anyway.

Maybe all of it counts.

I spent so long
thinking I needed
to become someone extraordinary
to make up for the man
I thought I'd failed to be.

But I'm tired
of treating myself
like a debt
I have to repay.

I'm a person.

A messy one.

A scared one.

A man who loved badly
in some places

and beautifully
in others.

A man who has regrets.

A man who still loves his wife.

A man learning
how to love himself enough
to stop requiring
someone else
to hold him together.

And some days

that man builds things.

Some days
he makes people laugh.

Some days
he gets excited
about the future.

Some days
he misses his best friend
so badly
the whole house
feels wrong.

And some days

he just breathes.

I'm done calling
those days wasted.

Because there were nights
when breathing until morning

was the hardest thing
I did.

Nobody applauded.

Nobody even knew.

There was no finish line.

No medal.

Just

in.

out.

in.

out.

Until the dark outside my window
turned gray.

So today

if all I manage
is another breath,

I'm going to let that be enough.

I don't have to rebuild
my entire life
before dinner.

I don't have to know
who I'll be next year.

I don't have to stop loving her.

I don't have to stop hurting.

I don't have to prove
a fucking thing.

Right now

my heart is beating.

My lungs are working.

I'm here.

Not thriving.

Not healed.

Not finished.

Breathing.

And today,

that counts.
Let Me Leave

I Didn't Leave

I didn't leave.

There should probably be
something profound after that.

Some reason.

Some moment
where I finally understood
the value of my own life.

There wasn't.

I didn't leave.

That's all.

There were nights
I wanted everything
to stop hurting.

Nights I was so tired
of carrying myself
that disappearing
felt easier than becoming.

I didn't want some grand ending.

I wanted quiet.

I wanted my head
to shut the fuck up.

I wanted one night
where I didn't replay
every mistake.

Every conversation.

Every warning
I understood too late.

I wanted to stop wondering
whether my wife
would ever come home.

Stop wondering
whether she missed me.

Stop wondering
whether becoming better now
meant anything

when she needed better
from me then.

I wanted rest.

And somehow

I kept confusing
rest

with gone.

But I didn't leave.

A friend came over.

My brothers showed up.

People sat inside my mess
without requiring me
to clean myself up first.

And slowly

I started doing things.

Tiny things.

Embarrassingly tiny things.

I cleaned.

I ate.

I talked.

I learned.

I built.

God,

I built.

I found problems
with answers.

Buttons that could be fixed.

Code that would eventually
do what I asked it to do.

Ideas that existed
only because

I stayed long enough
to make them real.

That mattered.

More than I expected.

Because for a while

everything in my life
felt like evidence
of what I couldn't do.

Couldn't keep my marriage together.

Couldn't stand alone.

Couldn't take care of myself.

Couldn't become
who I needed to be
until after everything broke.

Then one day

there was something
on a screen

that worked

because of me.

I know how small
that sounds.

It wasn't small to me.

It was proof.

Not that I was healed.

Not that everything
would be okay.

Just proof

that my hands
could still make something

besides a mess.

So I kept going.

Not forward.

I hate when people say that.

Forward makes it sound
like I stopped looking back.

I didn't.

I still look back.

I still miss her.

Still miss the life
we were supposed to have.

Still think about
a cruise next year.

Still think about countries
we put inside someday.

Still think about
the family we wanted

after the tumor disappeared

and life finally gave us
permission to start living again.

Sometimes I think
the cruelest thing
about losing a future

is that nobody tells
your imagination
to stop visiting it.

Mine still does.

I still see her
holding a child
with her eyes.

Still see myself
standing beside them.

Still see a version of us
who made it.

And then I'm back here.

In this version.

The one where
I don't know what happens.

And somehow

I am learning
to live here too.

That's new.

I used to think
uncertainty was something
I had to solve.

Now sometimes

I just let it sit beside me.

Maybe she comes back.

Maybe she doesn't.

Maybe we become something
neither of us
knows how to name yet.

Maybe someday
I stop asking.

I don't know.

But I didn't leave.

And because I didn't,

I've laughed since then.

Really laughed.

The kind where
you forget for a second
that you're supposed to be sad.

I've made things.

I've had ideas
I'm excited about.

I've talked to people
I hadn't met yet.

I've had mornings
that weren't waiting for me
on the nights
I almost gave up on them.

That's the part
that scares me now.

Not death.

The things I would've missed.

Not enormous things.

I don't know
if enormous things
are coming.

Small things.

A joke.

A message.

A project finally working.

That stupid feeling
when I solve something
and immediately want
to show somebody.

A conversation
that lasts longer
than I expected.

A version of myself
I'm only beginning
to meet.

I would've missed him.

That one hurts.

Because I spent so long
hating the man I was

that I almost never met
the man who came after him.

I'm not saying
I love that man yet.

We're working on it.

He still fucks up.

Still gets scared.

Still reaches backward
when he's supposed
to be learning
how to stand.

Still loves someone
whose place in his future
isn't promised anymore.

But he's trying.

And for once

I'm starting to think
trying deserves
more than the contempt
I've always given it.

So no,

this isn't the part
where I tell you

I'm glad everything happened.

I'm not.

I would change things.

I would speak sooner.

Listen better.

Stand beside her
instead of behind her.

I would hold ordinary days
like I knew
they were temporary.

But I can't go back.

And I didn't leave.

Those are the two facts
I'm learning
to live between.

Yesterday happened.

I'm still here.

Maybe that's enough.

Maybe someday
I'll read these words
from somewhere
I can't imagine yet

and wish I could reach backward
to the man writing them.

Maybe I'd tell him
what happens.

Maybe I wouldn't.

Maybe I'd just sit beside him

and let him know

there are things ahead
he hasn't met yet.

People.

Places.

Versions of himself.

Mornings.

And he doesn't have
to believe me.

He doesn't even have
to want them yet.

He only has to do
the one thing

he already did.

Stay long enough
to meet them.

I didn't leave.

And because I didn't,

my story

hasn't had the chance

to finish me yet.
Let Me Leave

If You Find This

If you find this,

I hope you weren't looking for it.

I hope you were bored.

Scrolling.

Killing time.

Clicked something
you probably would've ignored
on any other night.

I hope these words
mean nothing to you.

Really.

I hope you read about
the empty side of the bed

and think

that's sad.

Then put your phone down
and crawl beside someone
you've never had to learn
how to sleep without.

I hope

"I don't understand"

becomes the only thing
you understand about me.

That would mean
you're okay.

But if you're still reading,

maybe you're not.

Maybe something in here
sounds familiar.

Maybe you've said

fine

so many times
you forgot there was supposed
to be another answer.

Maybe you know
what five in the morning
sounds like.

Maybe somebody you love
is still alive

and you're grieving them anyway.

Maybe your future
used to have a face

and now
when you look ahead

there's just

I don't know.

Maybe you're tired.

Not sleepy.

Tired.

The kind that gets
into your bones.

The kind people answer
by telling you
how strong you are.

Maybe you fucking hate
being called strong too.

If that's why you're here,

I'm not going to tell you
everything gets better.

I hated when people
said that to me.

They couldn't know.

Neither can I.

I don't know you.

I don't know
what you're carrying.

And I won't insult you
by pretending a poem
can make it lighter.

These words
didn't save me.

People didn't save me
with perfect sentences either.

A friend cleaned my kitchen.

My brothers showed up.

People sat with me.

I built things.

I cried.

I laughed
when I didn't expect to.

I learned how to do things
I was ashamed
I didn't already know.

I missed my wife.

I missed my best friend.

I missed a future
that hadn't even happened yet.

I wanted her back.

Some days
I still do.

I wanted the cruise.

The countries.

The boring mornings.

The family
we were supposed to start
after the tumor disappeared.

I wanted my old life.

And when I couldn't have it,

I didn't know
whether I wanted
a different one.

That's the truth.

I wish I had
something prettier
to give you.

But pretty words
were never the point
of any of this.

The point is

I wrote them.

That's it.

I was here
long enough
to write them.

There were nights
when that wasn't guaranteed.

And because I stayed,

there are things
in these pages
that didn't exist yet
when I thought
my story was over.

That's strange
to think about.

There are versions of you
that don't exist yet either.

I know.

That sounds dangerously close
to one of those inspirational lines
I promised I wouldn't give you.

So forget it.

Don't believe in
some amazing future version
of yourself.

That's too much pressure.

Believe in nothing
if you need to.

Just don't confuse
not being able to imagine tomorrow

with tomorrow
having nothing in it.

I made that mistake.

More than once.

You don't have to decide
whether life is beautiful tonight.

You don't have to decide
whether you're grateful
to be here.

You don't have to promise
anybody forever.

Forever is heavy.

Five minutes isn't.

Take five.

Then decide
what to do with the next five.

Drink something.

Eat something.

Open the door.

Send the message
you've rewritten twelve times.

Say

I'm not okay.

Let somebody
sit in the ugly room with you.

They don't have to fix it.

My friend didn't fix my life
when we cleaned that kitchen.

But for a little while

I wasn't alone
inside the mess.

That mattered.

It still does.

And if nobody
has told you this
without immediately turning it
into a speech,

I believe you.

I believe you're tired.

I believe it hurts
as much as you say it does.

You don't have to prove
your suffering
before you're allowed
to ask someone
to help carry it.

I learned that late.

I've learned
a lot of things late.

That's kind of
the fucking theme here.

Maybe that's okay too.

I'm still learning.

Still becoming.

Still fucking up.

Still loving people.

Still missing people.

Still trying to figure out
what tomorrow looks like
when yesterday
doesn't get to design it anymore.

I don't know
how my story ends.

That's something
I've finally stopped
trying to solve.

But I know this:

you found these words

because I was here
to write them.

And somewhere

there might be a person
I haven't met yet

who needed me
to write them.

Maybe tonight

that's you.

So if you find this

and the room is dark

and you're tired

and tomorrow feels
too fucking far away,

don't carry tomorrow.

It's not here yet.

Carry this minute.

Then the next.

And if that's all
you manage tonight,

I won't call you strong.

I won't tell you
everything happens for a reason.

I won't promise you
there's a light
at the end.

I'll just leave these words
here beside you

from someone
who once couldn't see
the next morning either:

I stayed.

I wrote this.

You found it.

For right now,

let that be enough.