u/Nexgennoah

I’ve buried so many versions of myself
that if the earth could speak,
It would call me a graveyard with a heartbeat.

There’s a boy beneath my ribs
who used to laugh too loudly,
who believed promises were permanent,
who ran toward people
without measuring the fall.
I remember the night I killed him—
not with rage,
but with silence…
the kind that grows after being unheard
for too long.

Another version of me still lingers
in the smell of unfinished dreams—
coffee gone cold at 3 a.m.
tabs left open on a browser of “someday,”
messages typed… deleted… typed again…
never sent.
He wanted more from life,
but life wanted patience,
and he didn’t know how to wait
without breaking.

I have been a storm of almosts—
almost loved,
almost chosen,
almost enough.
Each “almost”
a quiet knife,
each disappointment
a lesson dressed like loss.

And somewhere along the way,
I learned the art of disappearing
without leaving—
sitting in rooms where my body stayed
But my soul slipped out
through the cracks of indifference.

Do you know what it costs
to become calm?

It costs the chaos you once called passion.
It costs the reckless hope
that made your chest feel alive.
It costs the version of you
who believed love would arrive loudly,
Stay gently,
and never ask you to shrink.

Now I am calm—
not because the storms stopped,
But because I became tired
of rebuilding after every flood.

I speak more softly now,
not out of peace,
But because I’ve learned
how easily voices are ignored.

I expect less,
not because I deserve less,
but because expectation
It is a fragile thing
That shatters too beautifully.

Sometimes, late at night,
When the world forgets to be loud,
I visit the ghosts of who I used to be.
We sit together in the dim light
of memories that still ache,
and they ask me,
“Was it worth it?”

And I don’t answer.

Because how do you explain
That survival feels like a victory
and a funeral
at the same time?

How do you tell them
that becoming calm
was never the goal—
it was just what remained
after everything else
was burned down?

But still…
in small, ordinary moments—
the warmth of tea in my hands,
the quiet of a sunrise nobody notices,
the way my heart still… somehow…
chooses to beat—

I find something fragile,
something stubborn,
something almost like hope.

And I realize—
Not every version of me is dead.

Some are just waiting,
patiently,
for a reason
to live again.