Some days I swear I’m made of mistakes,
tripping over choices,
breaking promises I meant to keep,
trying so hard and still falling short
of the person I’m supposed to be.
I carry the weight of every misstep,
every regret, every “should’ve,”
like stones in my pockets—
too heavy to hold,
too familiar to let go.
I look around and wonder
why everyone else seems to get it right,
while I keep starting over,
starting late,
starting tired.
But maybe failure isn’t the enemy.
Maybe it’s the whisper that I’m still trying,
the proof that I haven’t given up,
the crack where the light keeps pushing in.
Because even when I feel broken,
I’m still breathing.
Even when I feel lost,
I’m still moving.
And even on the days I feel like a failure,
I’m still here—
and that has to count for something.
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