The Room I Stayed In

I’m sitting in a room I barely recognize.
The walls are chipped.
The corners hold pieces of me
I swear I threw away.

Old versions of myself are scattered everywhere—
the girl who begged for love,
the one who let everything slide,
the one who thought she’d never make it out alive.

The floor creaks when I breathe.
Light sneaks in through the blinds,
like it’s been trying to find me
this whole time.

Dust floats in the air,
and I just watch it fall—
settling on everything I used to be.

I used to think healing meant repainting,
making it look brand new,
like none of this ever happened.

But now I think it’s this:
sitting here with all the broken pieces,
letting the cracks stay cracks,
letting the dust stay dust,
letting the flowers push through on their own.

There are weeds here too,
and memories that still hurt if I touch them.
But the room is alive—
and maybe that’s what matters.

Not making it perfect,
but letting it breathe again.

So I stay.
I stay long enough to hear my own heartbeat,
to feel the floor steady beneath me,
to know I am safe here.

I stay until I believe it.