Sometimes, the feeling of being undeserving of love isn't loud or sharp. It lingers quietly, a shadow at the end of my thoughts- a reminder I can't quite shake. I've tried to forgive myself for the person I became in that dark season. But no matter the apologies, the atonement, or the distance of time, I can't seem to let go of the guilt. It's as though my past self doesn't just cling to me- it is me, woven into my bones, breathing just beneath the surface. No effort will be enough to wash away those regrets- I will never outlive it, my guilt. I have failed the people who mean the most, and I live in fear of people finding out. I carry those regrets like scars, unseen yet heavy, haunting me everyday with the thought that I will never be worthy of true forgiveness. There have been times when guilt swallowed me whole; when my self hatred ran so deep I would have preferred not to exist at all. Those moments have lessened, growing quieter over time. It's a kind of moral perfectionism, a bitterness at myself for the stains I can't wash away, this relentless ache for a clean slate I'll never have.
I envy the person I once was, the one who didn't carry this weight. Sometimes, in rare moments, I feel her again- sitting in a coffee shop, wrapped in a book's quiet embrace. That girl deserved the love I now hold, the forgiveness others have extended. But this thought remains like a whisper in the dark: I am no longer worthy of any of it. I don't know how to make peace with the version of me that lost her way, that became something dark and twisted. Because of her, I have forfeited the right to be free of this weight. I forgive others so freely, without a second thought, maybe because I am so desperate for grace myself. Yet I hold onto my own faults with a fierceness that feels unbreakable, a prison of my own making. I don't know if I will ever truly forgive myself, or if I'll always be haunted by this quiet ache that I'm pretending, playing a role, hoping I'll somehow believe in a redemption I can't feel. And maybe that's what I deserve- to carry this unfulfilled longing for peace, to feel forever like an imposter in my own life, haunted by a version of me I can't let go of.
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
This Is Not for You (But Read It Anyway)
ПоэзияI didn't write this for you. I wrote it because I had to - in the middle of the night, on the back of receipts, in margins and spiral notebooks. These are the pieces of me that never asked to be shared. But here they are anyway. This book is made of...
