Every Ghost We Carry

I didn’t step away from writing. I was just surviving. The past doesn’t knock it seeps. And when it does, you hold still, let it pass, and come back softer and sharper.

Not because you’re dead.

But because something in you didn’t survive the war.

You sit there clean, present, awake and the ghosts still crawl up your spine.

You remember the metal taste of her meth, dope, oxy, fentanyl the way she lied better than anyone ever loved you. You remember the way she told you she’d never leave. And the way she almost made that true.

You remember the kids crying.

The CPS visits.

The jobs lost.

The funeral dresses on little girls who should be in dress-up gowns.

Mothers burying babies they fought for,

and babies never getting to bury their mothers at all.

You remember being both.

And still you rise.

Still you fight the itch.

Still you carry the weight.

Recovery is not clean.

It’s gritty. It’s ugly. It’s holy.

It’s learning how to live without your armor.

It’s standing in the mirror and seeing what you did

what was done to you and choosing to keep breathing anyway.

This isn’t a trend.

This isn’t a milestone badge.

This isn’t a goddamn filter.

This is for the girl who didn’t make it.

For the moms who carry both grief and guilt.

For the men who were never allowed to cry, so they used instead.

For the kids who just wanted their parents back and got a folded flag.

For every addict who clawed their way out

and still has nights they want to crawl back in.

You’re not weak.

You’re not broken.

You’re just one of us.

And that means something.

We are not made clean by time,

but by truth.

We rise not because we’re healed

but because we choose to stand in the ruin

and still sing.

Feathers don’t always float.

Sometimes, they drag behind us

soaked with tears, truth, and memory.

Still, they are part of our wings.

Still, we lift.

And when we do

we carry the veils of the fallen,

and the feathers of those who lived.

We carry both.

We are both.

We are still here.

𝘝𝘦𝘪𝘭 & 𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳

for the women who lived, the ones who left, and the ones still finding their way back. To my girls I see you.

𝘊.𝘈.

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