asked me to stay

I asked for silence

not the kind that follows breath,

but the kind that softens the noise

of memory replaying itself.

Every choice I made

sits beside me now,

not as lessons,

but as stones.

I carry them

in a body that won’t forget,

in a mind that rewinds

without mercy.

Pain is honest.

It does not flatter.

It names things

I wish had stayed unnamed.

So I whispered upward,

if there is an end,

let it be gentle.

Let it not argue with me.

But something,

not loud, not certain,

refused to close the door.

It said:

You are not only what you did.

You are also what you do next.

And I hated that voice

because it asked me to stay.

To sit

with the weight,

with the ache,

with the unfinished sentence

of my life.

But here I am,

not healed,

not free,

just… here.

Breathing

like it still matters.