Writers 
My mirror knows
how many times I practiced
being okay.
It watched me
straighten my clothes,
fix my hair,
lift my chin,
then whisper,
“Don’t let them see
how tired you are.”
My pillow knows
the names of every person
I cried over.
It has caught tears
that never reached my cheeks
and held conversations
I was too afraid
to have out loud.
My phone knows
how often I typed,
“I miss you.”
Then deleted it.
It knows the difference
between the messages
I wanted to send
and the ones
I was brave enough to send.
My shoes know
how many times
I walked away
while secretly hoping
someone would call me back.
My chair knows
the weight of my silence.
My window knows
how long I have stood
watching other people's lives
move forward,
wondering when
mine would begin.
Even the old cup
on my desk remembers
the mornings
I promised myself,
“This will be different.”
And perhaps
that is why
I have never thrown
these things away.
Not because
they are valuable.
But because
they have witnessed
the versions of me
nobody else remembers.
The frightened one.
The hopeful one.
The foolish one.
The woman who stayed
too long.
The girl who kept believing
someone would come
and save her.
The person who eventually
realized
she was the someone
she had been waiting for.
Tonight,
I look around my room.
Everything is quiet.
The mirror says nothing.
The phone is dark.
The window holds
the reflection of the moon.
And for once,
I don't need
any of them
to remember me.
Because I finally do.
I remember
who I was.
I understand
who I became.
And I am beginning
to recognize
who I am becoming.
Maybe growing up
is not becoming
someone new.
Maybe it is simply
learning to look
at every old version
of yourself
without wishing
you could erase her.
So tonight,
I leave the light on.
Let the room remember.
Let the walls keep
their secrets.
Tomorrow,
I will walk outside
carrying nothing
but the parts of myself
I finally learned
not to abandon.
