People think moving on
is only about love,
about losing someone once
and finally giving up.
But nobody talks about
the grief we never show,
the friendships that turned strange,
the pain we outgrew alone.
Some nights a random song,
or a place I used to know,
pulls old memories from my chest
so softly, yet so cold.
And suddenly I’m back again,
sitting quiet in my room,
trying to understand
why healing still feels like gloom.
The wounds are closed now,
I know they disappeared,
but scars are strange little things
they heal, yet still stay near.
But moving on, to me,
is not pretending I’m fine,
it’s learning how to sit alone
without fearing my own mind.
It’s waking up each morning
without fighting yesterday
before brushing my teeth
and starting another day.
It’s learning to love myself
without needing someone new,
finding peace inside the chaos
I once thought I’d never get through.
Because maybe moving on
is not forgetting what hurt me through
maybe it is finally
being okay with myself,
with my own chaos too.