a poem made actual in National Poetry Month
“Becoming”
The door did not slam
when he left—
it sighed.
As if the house itself
had grown tired
of holding its breath
through all those years
of careful footsteps,
of words folded smaller and smaller
until even silence felt too loud.
He did not leave all at once.
He left in fragments—
a truth here,
a boundary there,
a quiet refusal
that trembled in his throat
like a bird unsure of sky.
And still, I stayed
long enough
to witness the unraveling—
not of love,
but of something that wore its shape
like a mask that slipped
only when no one was looking.
Addiction is a strange fire.
It does not burn only the one
who feeds it—
it warms you just enough
to mistake it for light,
until you realize
you have been living
inside the smoke.
There are things I carry still.
Of course I do.
Not him—
not really—
but the echoes:
the second-guessing,
the careful scanning of faces,
the instinct to make myself smaller
so the room feels safer.
And yet—
there is something else now.
A small, insistent spark.
Not loud.
Not certain.
But mine.
It shows up
in mornings
that belong only to me —
hair unwashed, unhurried,
sunlight touching my face
without asking permission.
when I choose myself
in ways that almost feel
like disobedience.
in the quiet knowledge
that survival was not my final form.
His story ended
in a way I could not rewrite.
There is a grief
with no clean edges.
But mine —
mine is still unfolding.
I am not starting over.
I are starting from —
from every lesson
I never asked to learn,
from every moment
I stayed when leaving
felt impossible,
from the strength
I only recognize now
because I no longer need it
to endure.
There are days
when the past feels closer
than the future.
On those days,
I remember:
I have already done
the hardest thing.
I walked out
of a life
that asked me
to disappear.
And now—
slowly, stubbornly,
beautifully—
I am becoming again.
I love this Cheryl! It is truly honest, raw and real -- and well done. Not too much... not too little. It moves in the cadence of your journey and feelings. Thank you for this.
I love the door sighing. All of it, really.
“Becoming”
The door did not slam
when he left—
it sighed.
As if the house itself
had grown tired
of holding its breath
through all those years
of careful footsteps,
of words folded smaller and smaller
until even silence felt too loud.
He did not leave all at once.
He left in fragments—
a truth here,
a boundary there,
a quiet refusal
that trembled in his throat
like a bird unsure of sky.
And still, I stayed
long enough
to witness the unraveling—
not of love,
but of something that wore its shape
like a mask that slipped
only when no one was looking.
Addiction is a strange fire.
It does not burn only the one
who feeds it—
it warms you just enough
to mistake it for light,
until you realize
you have been living
inside the smoke.
There are things I carry still.
Of course I do.
Not him—
not really—
but the echoes:
the second-guessing,
the careful scanning of faces,
the instinct to make myself smaller
so the room feels safer.
And yet—
there is something else now.
A small, insistent spark.
Not loud.
Not certain.
But mine.
It shows up
in mornings
that belong only to me —
hair unwashed, unhurried,
sunlight touching my face
without asking permission.
It shows up
when I choose myself
in ways that almost feel
like disobedience.
It shows up
in the quiet knowledge
that survival was not my final form.
His story ended
in a way I could not rewrite.
There is a grief
with no clean edges.
But mine —
mine is still unfolding.
I am not starting over.
I are starting from —
from every lesson
I never asked to learn,
from every moment
I stayed when leaving
felt impossible,
from the strength
I only recognize now
because I no longer need it
to endure.
There are days
when the past feels closer
than the future.
On those days,
I remember:
I have already done
the hardest thing.
I walked out
of a life
that asked me
to disappear.
And now—
slowly, stubbornly,
beautifully—
I am becoming again.
I love this Cheryl! It is truly honest, raw and real -- and well done. Not too much... not too little. It moves in the cadence of your journey and feelings. Thank you for this.
I love the door sighing. All of it, really.