I'm scared of the house I once knew,
the silence that swallowed me whole,
the shadows that sat on my chest
and called themselves comfort.
I'm scared of the rooms where I forgot my name,
where the mirror looked back and said
you're still not enough.
But I have walked through the fire since then.
I have named my pain
and still chosen to live.
I have breathed when breath felt borrowed,
stood up when the ground shook beneath me.
I am not who I was —
I carry softness like armor now,
carry fear like a map,
carry light in the parts of me
that once only held storm.
And now,
I'm home.
Finally.
Yes, it was rough at first —
still is, some days.
Getting used to the air here again,
the weight of familiar walls,
the ghosts that used to feel like gravity.
But I fight every day to feel okay.
Back where I was,
anxiety vanished.
It was like I'd shed my skin
and stepped into someone new.
Now I'm back —
and still, no anxiety.
It waits in the corners, maybe,
but I don't let it in.
I won't go back.
Not to that endless void
that held me prisoner,
that clipped my wings
and told me that was love.
No.
This time,
I will show them all
what I'm made of —
the storms I've lived through,
the skies I'm learning to fly.
Because now,
my wings are colorful.
My wings are uncut.
My wings are mine.
And there's nothing
—nothing—
holding me back.