I’m not writing for you anymore.
Not for your silence.
Not for your approval.
Not for some ghost of who you promised to become.
I’m writing for the man
who stared death in the face
and didn’t blink.
For the one who held grief in one hand
and a pen in the other
and chose to keep breathing.
I’m writing for the father
who remembers the weight of a child
never held.
For the version of me that cried so hard
the heavens cracked open
and still didn’t answer.
I’m writing for the nights
I didn’t think I’d survive.
For the mornings
I did anyway.
No more metaphors for her.
No more lines she’ll pretend not to read.
This ink is mine now.
And it’s holy.
Because I bled for this healing.
Because I broke for this peace.
Because I earned every syllable
by not giving up.