Writers 
Now love stands near me,
soft and real,
but I don’t know how to open my hands yet.
It’s there. Patient.
Not demanding, not rushing.
Just waiting at the door I keep locked from the inside.
And I’m scared.
Scared that if I let it in, it’ll leave like the others did.
Scared that my hands are too shaky to hold anything good.
Scared that I forgot how to receive without flinching.
So I watch it from a distance.
I let it sit with me in silence.
I’m learning that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
It can be quiet. It can be steady.
It can be someone who stays when you’re not okay.
Still, I am trying.
Some days that means getting out of bed.
Some days it means drinking water.
Some days it means texting one person back.
Small things. Honest things.
Still, I am here.
I didn’t disappear.
I didn’t give up, even when I wanted to.
I’m here with all my scars and all my questions.
And maybe this new year
is not about being whole
but about healing without rushing the scars.
Maybe it’s about letting them take their time.
Letting them fade when they’re ready.
Letting me be a work in progress
and calling that enough.
I survived this year.
Bruised, numb, broken, and still standing.
And that has to count for something.