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I never truly believed I could be enough.

Not for anything, definitely not for anyone. So when someone stayed,

I held on like it was the only way to choose myself.


Because in their choosing, I finally found a way to silence the part of me

that always asked: what made me a bad choice?


Even if all I ever offered was a version of me

still waiting to be rescued from herself.


You see.

Letting go felt too brutal.

Too empty.

Too much silence to carry alone.


What do you hold when you stop holding

the only thing you know how to hold on to?


So I stayed because I was terrified

of what I’d find without them.


Or maybe I was just tired. Of being disappointed in who I couldn’t be.


And too tired to hate myself all over again.


That’s why it took so long to finally stop.


But hey, am all good today.


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