Can’t

You are one letter away from everything.

A breath held between doubt and becoming.

One letter away from dreams taking shape,

from the quiet “almost” turning into “is.”

One letter away from every open door,

from chances waiting on the edge of your name.

One letter away from rewriting the story,

from ink that no longer bleeds regret.

One letter away from the person you see

in moments where you almost believe.

You stand in the space between holding on and letting go,

fingers brushing the life you keep telling yourself you can’t have.

Every hesitation builds a wall that was never there,

every doubt just a shadow cast by your own fear.

You’ve carried that letter like it’s truth,

like it belongs stitched into your identity.

But it was never part of you,

just something you learned to say when the world felt too heavy.

And still, even now, you feel it loosening,

like a weight slipping from your chest,

like something inside you remembering

what it felt like before you started saying no to yourself.

But that letter.

That fragile, stubborn thing,

the difference between can and can’t,

between reaching and retreating,

between who you are

and who you refuse to be.

So drop it.

Let it fall like dead weight from your tongue,

like fear losing its grip on your spine.

Because everything you are

has never been out of reach,

only one letter

out of the way.