The Rewritten path

I’ve been stabbed in the back — literally. I’ve bled out on a bathroom floor and still got cuffed two weeks later while searching for the woman who disappeared after doing it. I’ve died six times. Buried people I loved. Slept in cars. Sat in max security with a million-dollar bond for crimes I didn’t commit.

I was the quiet one. The gentle giant. The one who never hit back — not even when it cost me everything.

Now I write the stories no one else will tell.
The ugly ones. The holy ones. The ones you swore you’d take to your grave.
I tell them because surviving isn’t enough. Not anymore.
I want to live.

This isn’t trauma porn. This is how we level the fuck up.
This is for the ones who loved someone too sick to love them back.
For the ones who stayed too long, left too late, or disappeared entirely.
For anyone who’s ever looked in the mirror and couldn’t find themselves.

I write because I know what it’s like to be the thread someone’s holding on to.
And I’m not letting go.