Seeking of Unknown

I wasn’t taught how to want more.
I was taught how to not ask.
To sit in silence.
To smile through it.
To be grateful for scraps
and call it a blessing.

Most of the people who raised me, where lost and confused. 
So dreaming felt selfish.
Wanting peace felt dramatic.
And hurting?
That was just called life.

I got used to pretending I was okay.
To carrying things that were supposed to be too heavy for me.
No one else was coming to help.
I didn’t want to be a burden.
I was always the strong one, right?

No one tells you that strength, when built from trauma,
becomes a the collar.
You keep wearing it
even when it’s cutting into your skin.

Some days I still wake up in fight mode. Not knowing whome I’m fighting.

Myself?

The people who hurt me? The world that never stopped to ask what I needed?

I walk with ghosts.
Memories that don't leave.
Mistakes that still sting.
The versions of me I buried
because they were too soft to survive what I had gone through.

I’m not seeking peace. Or relief. Just proof that all the breaking I did wasn’t for nothing.

I don’t want to just exist in someone else’s idea of okay.

I want to build something from the bones of what tried to destroy me.
I want to scream until I feel heard.
I want to cry without apologizing.
I want to be messy and still deserve love.

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
But I know I can’t keep doing this—
smiling while I drown.
Laughing through the ache.
Pretending "I’m fine"
just to make other people comfortable.

This world doesn’t hand you healing.
You have to fight for every inch of it.
Sometimes with tears.
Sometimes with rage.
Sometimes with nothing but your breathe
and your will to not go back.

So no.

I don’t have peace yet.
I don’t have clarity.
But I do have rage that remembers.
And that’s enough to keep moving.

I’m still seeking.
Still bleeding.
Still standing.

The path?
Unknown.
But it’s mine now.
And I’m not giving it back.