Threshold

I have worn this version of myself too long—
a skin stretched thin with grief,
stitched together by loss
and the quiet hum of fear.

Some nights, I catch my reflection
and look away too fast—
I can see the weight I carry,
aware that I keep feeding ghosts
what should belong to my future.

There is a door I’ve built myself,
heavy with hesitation,
its handle cold with the touch
of the constant demons.

I stand before it trembling,
one hand on the past,
one reaching for something brighter—
and both are shaking.

Change whispers like wind
through a crack in the frame:
if you stay, you’ll rot.
If you go, you’ll rise.

So I take a breath
and lay my old self down gently,
like shedding a name
that no longer fits.

The leap terrifies me—
but I know now,
so does standing still.