I should be proud — there is proof now. A finsihed thing. Paper and ink that says i existed long enough to carry something all the way through.
People call this a victory. They say i made it out. But the hole still exists, unchanged by applause, unimpressed by evidence.
I am eight again, in the shed, my fingers learning the language of knots, memorising how many ways a rope can hold a body. The car pulling back in wasn't salvation-- just interuption. A life paused mid-thought and told to continue.
I don't want validation. Not the kind that arrives after the danger has passed. I don't want victory that only counts the survival and not the cost.
I just need your eyes to meet my words for the first time-- not as praise, not as proof, but as recognition.
To be read the way i once waited to be seen.