Refusal To Die

The deeper I dive,
the more I find inside this mind,
and I'm not sure who I am—
or if these thoughts are enemies or friends.
Could this be the end?

Poem from 2021^^

I was scrolling through old poems last night looking for evidence of past selves.

Told

C.S. Mee

I didn't feel like a writer. My fingers hovering over delete. My brain a cemetery of half-formed sentences.

She reminded me that sometimes the ruins we try to bury are the only real proof we were ever alive at all. I’ve always been a writer. I just got better at hiding it. Got better at surviving.

Some nights, survival looked like silence. Some nights, it looked like work. Some nights, it looked like forgetting who I used to be just to keep breathing.

But the proof never left. Buried in every half-finished poem. Every note I was too scared to share. Every line that felt too broken to call a sentence.

Survival isn't clean. It isn't linear. It's ugly and stuttering and mean.You don't finish becoming someone new. You just get tired of dying the same old ways.

I was disguising all my old deaths in pretty words and marketing.