I’ve had to open the windows,
hoping the fresh air
might make it easier to breathe.
Now the breeze has come in,
and somehow,
I’m cold.
I’ve pulled the duvet
a little higher,
tucking myself underneath,
as though fabric
could quiet
what’s happening inside me.
I exhale.
There’s so much
I want to say.
But I can’t.
I miss the days
when I could simply write,
spill everything onto the page,
and figure it all out later.
Now I can’t.
So I’m here,
tossing,
turning,
trying to make sense of it all.
Except…
I can’t.
I let out another breath,
hoping
the tightness in my chest
will leave with it.
It feels
as though something
is sitting there.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
An ache
I cannot explain.
And somehow,
I cannot shake it.
I cannot say it.
So I carry it.
Quietly.
I act.
I pretend.
I smile.
I laugh.
I socialize.
I answer questions
like nothing is wrong.
But my chest knows.
My heart knows.
Something hurts.
Something aches.
And I cannot
give it words.
So I breathe.
I keep walking.
I keep showing up.
Not because I’m okay.
But because
I have no choice.
Some days,
I feel free.
Other days,
I feel trapped
inside a story
I cannot tell.
So I become
a butterfly.
Beautiful enough
that no one notices
the storm
beneath the wings.
I’ve lived
through pain before.
Every season
that promised
to break me
eventually
let me go.
So I borrow hope
from yesterday.
I whisper,
“This too shall pass.”
Until the day
those words
become true again.
And until then,
I exhale.
With Love,
Ayo
⸻
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