I have watered
too many dead roots
and called it devotion.
I have mistaken
crumbs for effort.
A hand on my leg.
A soft word
when I am already breaking.
But a match
is not a sunrise.
And I am tired
of warming my hands
over almost.
There are paintings on the wall
that remind me of people
who never got to be old.
There are memories
that still walk through the room
wearing someone else’s perfume.
There are names
I do not say out loud
because they open
like trapdoors.
But I have learned
that grief is not proof
I should stay small.
And loneliness
is not a reason
to keep company
that does not see me.
I want real friends.
Not the kind
who gather around the wound
because they like the smell of blood.
Not the kind
who love me most
when I am useful,
sad,
manageable,
quiet.
Not the kind
who need me broken
so they can feel.
I want those who can stand
beside me when I am whole.
The ones who do not flinch
when I laugh too loud.
The ones who do not punish me
for wanting sunlight.
I have been scared
to let myself be seen.
Scared that if I walked out
as myself,
the big version,
the honest version,
the version with dust on his boots
and fire under his ribs,
the wrong people would leave.
But maybe that is the mercy.
Maybe that is the gate
doing its job.
Maybe the ones
who can’t walk with me
were never meant
for this stretch of road.
So let them drift.
Let the old rooms empty.
Let the silence come in
and sweep the floor.
I am not looking
for someone to save me.
I am looking
for the people
who can meet me
without needing me
to disappear first.
I am ready
to stop calling fear
wisdom.
I am ready
to stop mistaking stuck
for loyal.
And when the road opens,
I will not apologize
for walking.
I will tip my hat
to the ghosts,
thank the ache
for teaching me,
and keep going.
Chestnut Cowboy 