Gift?

I've survived things that should've left my name carved into stone.

Violence.

Addiction.

More than one night filled with chemicals.

A mind that is either too high or too low.

There were nights I was certain the story was over.

Somehow, I woke up.

People call that strength.

I call it unfinished business.

Pain feels like comfort.

Loneliness, my oldest friend.

I'm tired, but no sleep can fix it

Most days, I'm just existing, lying to myself.

Death has walked past me more than once,

looked me in the eyes,

and said no

Now I'm left wondering

why mercy feels more like punishment