Still Here.

Morning does not ask permission.

It opens its ledger, sharp as frost,

and writes our names in ink that dries too fast.

Bills pester. Doors expect opening.

Time keeps its boot on the stair.

.

Inside, something is ripped

a single page torn from your history.

Your mind fraying like rope being hauled over a blade.

No one taught us this part,

that adulthood is not so much an arrival.

It’s endurance dressed in ordinary clothes.

.

We were raised on endings that tidied themselves.

Storms that knew when to stop.

Pain that bowed out at the final page.

Happily ever after.

Then the world corrected us, without malice,

without apology:

There’s no crescendo heralding survival.

.

So we learn the art of showing up.

We button shirts with shaking hands.

We answer questions we do not feel.

We smile with muscles trained by habit,

not joy.

This is less hypocrisy, more scaffolding.

.

Kindness, here, is practical.

It is the cup of water you force yourself to drink.

The breath you take that’s one beat longer

than despair recommends.

It is speaking gently to the self you

were taught to whip into motion.

.

Make no mistake,

this is brutal work.

There are days the body moves

while the soul drags its heels,

leaving behind a long, invisible furrow.

There are days courage looks

exactly like exhaustion.

And yet,

somewhere beneath the wreckage,

a small, stubborn engine hums.

Not hope exactly. Not optimism.

Something quieter.

A refusal.

You take one step.

Not because it will save you.

Not because it promises anything.

But because stopping would be a lie,

and you are done with adding lies to the pile.

.

This is how we live.

Not heroic. But present.

Wounded, not healed.

Carrying ourselves when no one else can.

Being, at last,

the witness we waited for.

If there is a miracle in this life,

it will rarely shout.

It’ll whisper, hoarse but steady:

Still here.