The world isn’t fair.
Not in the ways we expect.
It’s unfair in the quieter ways—
in how something can make you feel alive
and still leave you wrecked.
Fairness isn’t balance.
It’s a borrowed scale,
tilted by the weight of what we can’t have,
and the heaviness of what we do.
And I’ve learned how to live with that.
I learned to call longing “patience,”
to dress grief in grace.
I made peace with wanting less.
Until I wanted more.
I collect feelings like artifacts,
dust off every ache, every echo, every almost.
I thought I knew the whole museum of myself
every framed belief, every moral plaque,
every line I said I’d never cross.
But something broke in quietly,
without knocking.
No apology. No warning.
Just… a shift.
And suddenly,
my thoughts weren’t mine.
My hands weren’t steady.
And my heart was speaking a language
I never taught it.
It was like falling into the ocean
After years of sipping water from a spoon.
I wasn’t drowning.
I was tasting life,
the way it was meant to be tasted
salty, wild, and infinite.
What do you call the kind of wrong
that feels holy.
What do you name a sin
that feels like home.
My “right” was never the world’s.
And maybe it never had to be.
This feeling
I still don’t know what to call it.
Only that it came like sunlight
after years in the basement of my life.
It stung.
It scorched.
But it warmed me
in places I didn’t know had gone cold.
And I am greedy.
I wanted all of it.
I wanted to drink it down
even if it blistered on the way out.
But I began to split.
Right down the center.
One version of me
neat, good, obedient.
The other
a wildfire whispering,
“What if this is what you’ve been waiting for?”
I used to be good at leaving.
God, I used to be excellent at letting go.
I made it my gospel
detachment as religion, silence as strength.
I told myself walking away
was the same as healing.
But now
I’ve met something I can’t walk away from.
Or someone.
Some people don’t arrive in your life.
They collide.
They are not visitors.
They are gravity.
They feel like something that always existed
but finally took shape
like a memory coming back with a name.
And once you’ve seen them
how do you unsee it?
How do you unfeel
the thing that woke you?
I push away the things
that make me feel too much.
I was raised on survival,
not softness.
I’ve only ever trusted pain to stay.
There is something between us
a pull, a tension,
like we are opposite magnets
meant to orbit the same field
but never touch.
It’s not logic.
It’s surrender.
People say all is fair in love and war.
But they forget :
Love is the war.
And if your kind of love
doesn’t match theirs,
you lose before you’re even allowed to begin.
I am new to this.
But it feels ancient.
Like something I inherited in my blood
long before I knew its name.
And now,
it lives in me—
this raw, ravenous knowing.
It keeps me up.
It makes me write things I never meant to say aloud.
It rearranges the blue print of who I thought I was.
And the truth?
I don’t know how to live with it.
But I don’t know how to live without it, either.
All I know is—
it’s consuming me.
Quietly.
Completely.
Like a fire that doesn’t rage—
just flickers,
and flickers,
until one day there’s nothing left
but smoke where your name used to be.
And I’m not ready to let it go.
Not yet.
May be not ever.
Some truths don’t ask to be solved.
They ask to be held,
just long enough
to remind you
that you are still here—
still burning,
still breaking,
still beautifully alive.
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