What I Write Now

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.