Some problems
Are like stones in your pocket.
You’ve carried them so long,
They’ve started to feel like lint.
Familiar. Small. Permanent.
But just because something feels like home
Doesn’t mean it’s not hurting you.

Sometimes,
Healing starts with a question
Asked at 3am, in a whisper:
“Why am I still holding this?“
And maybe your hands don’t answer,
But they tremble.
And that’s enough.

So you reach in,
Past all the excuses,
The “This is just how I am,”
The “It wasn’t that heavy”
And you pull it out
A wound masquerading as a memory,
A bruise dressed like a trophy.

You stare at it.
And it stares back.
And without ceremony,
Without applause,
You let it go;
Let it fall.
Let gravity do what your heart couldn’t;
Let the silence stay: Finally.

Because you…
You were never made to drown
In your own chapters.
You were meant to surface,
To rewrite the ending,
To turn the pain into poetry,
And the weight into air.

And if there’s no applause?
Let the earth do it for you,
With every thud of something
You no longer need to carry. 

(c)BobChristian