Poems

I tell myself I have let it go—
opened my fists,
let the weight slip through my fingers
like breath on glass—
there, then gone.

But forgiveness does not stitch the wound,
does not erase the past,
only teaches you how to carry it.

The scar stays—
tight in the cold,
raw in the rain.

I said I forgave the silence
for making me small,
for making me afraid,
for teaching me
that being unseen
was the safest way to survive.

I said I forgave the world
for pressing me into a shape
I never chose,
for asking me to shrink
when all I wanted was to expand.

I said I forgave myself
for mistaking endurance for strength,
for burying my voice
before it could rise,
for believing silence
and suffering
was the price of manhood.

But still, it burns—
not like fire,
but embers under ash,
a heat waiting.

If forgiveness is freedom,
why does it still press against my ribs?
Why does it settle in my chest—
tight, coiled—
waiting to be named?

I have forgiven.

But forgetting?
Forgetting is a ghost—
a shadow of remembering,
with nowhere to go,
asking to be let back in.

Once, I stood still under the sun—
let it press its fire into my skin,
let it weigh me down,
a command to endure.

But today, I run where the water sings.

Barefoot through cold laughter,
water lifting into chorus,
bright and quick as joy,
wrapping my ankles, pulling me back
to something younger,
something unafraid to break the surface.

The sun is still there,
but today, it is only light—
not a burden, not a weight,
not the slow burn of too much time,
not heat settling in my ribs like dust.

Just warmth,
watching me play.