I built this life
on silence,
on nights no one else could bear.
Strength was not given —
I dragged it from the dark,
stitch by stitch,
breath by breath.
No partner could have carried me here.
No love could have softened the climb.
This summit demanded solitude,
and I paid the toll alone.
Once, I loved with open hands.
But August carved its mark into me —
a wound too fragile to stay.
Death pressed its weight against my chest,
and in that stillness,
a different devotion was born:
to truth,
to survival,
to the man who rose from ashes.
Now I stand.
Not waiting.
Not begging.
Not undone.
And if curiosity ever circles back
to the place where my name once lived —
this is what it will find:
I could only reach this height
by standing alone.
And from here,
the air tastes like freedom.