I came from the smoke-stained corners of youth,
where the nights were loud, and my pulse was a coin tossed
between living and disappearing.

Thirteen lit the match that cost me my existence.
At sixteen, the pills whispered, and the powders promised kingdoms— but handed me a coffin instead.

I wandered through rooms with no windows, beds with no mornings,
a body with no soul; the world kept spinning even when my heart stopped.
People tried to help, but fear drowned me. I wanted to vanish, yet the breath in me refused to say goodbye.

There were days when I woke up only because death was bored with me.
There were nights when I prayed without believing, and yet, someone listened.
Someone kept pulling me toward the light— a hand I could not see, but a hand I could trust.

And when I finally stood still, when I dropped the lies, the chemicals,
and every version of myself that survived by breaking,
I found a God who wasn’t offended by my mess.

He wasn’t afraid of the ruins; He didn’t flinch at the wreckage I had caused.
And He called me by my name— not by my past, or my trauma, or my mistakes, not by whom I was pretending to be.

Now I walk with new breath in my lungs, a heart rebuilt,
and a soul resurrected. I am loved. I am claiming.
I am living proof that the darkness is loud, but His grace and love are louder.

”Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

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