I’ve been away too long.
Not just from the place
but from me.

There’s a version of myself
somewhere in Florida,
still standing on the porch,
waiting for me to come back
and finish the story.

When I left,
I didn’t choose it.
I was sixteen,
following orders,
packing up things
I never wanted to leave behind.
Pieces of me
got scattered across the map
but the biggest one
stayed right there.

This place I’m in now,
it don’t feel like mine.
The sun hits different.
The air don’t hold memory.
Even the silence is unfamiliar.
Like I’m just borrowing life
instead of living it.

I don’t want to escape.
I just want to return.
To the streets that raised me,
to the past that never got closure,
to the roots that still call my name
like I’m overdue.

Going back
ain’t about comfort.
It’s about freedom.
It’s about walking the same streets
as a man this time
on my terms.
With all I’ve learned.
With nothing left unsaid.

I’ve had the brakes on
since I left.
But I’m ready now.
Not to rewind
but to reclaim.

Home isn’t just a place.
It’s where I start moving forward
for real.

I’ve been through enough
to know silence can be louder than screams.
Enough to know
“I'm fine” usually means
I'm not.

I’ve had nights
where the weight got heavy,
but I held it anyway.
No applause.
No witness.
Just me
and the dark
playing tug-of-war with my peace.

But I never let go.
Even when I wanted to.

There’s a version of me
I used to mourn
the one before the heartbreak,
before the trust got shattered,
before I learned
people only love you
when it's easy.

Now I move slower,
but wiser.
I speak less,
but mean more.
I lost some friends,
but I found my spine.

The ink on my hand
ain’t decoration
it’s declaration.
Proof I’ve made it this far,
even if the road
was more cuts than comfort.

I don’t expect perfect anymore.
Just real.
Just effort.
Just peace that don’t ask me
to shrink to fit inside it.

I’m not healed,
but I’m healing.
Not fearless,
but brave.
Still got days
where I look in the mirror
and ask,
“Am I really built for this?”

And every time,
my reflection answers,
“You already are.”

There were nights
I didn’t want to wake up.
Mornings where my chest felt caged,
where breathing felt like punishment,
not promise.

I’ve stared at ceilings
like they owed me answers.
Told myself I was fine
when I was breaking in slow motion.
I smiled through funerals—
not just of people,
but of versions of me
no one knew I buried.

I gave love to people
who turned it into leverage.
Told my secrets to ears
that sold them for nothing.
Held others up
while I drowned quietly.
Not a splash.
Not a sound.
Just me,
and the weight
that everyone swore they didn’t see.

I trusted hands
that left me bleeding,
blamed myself
for needing.
Let too many “almosts”
convince me I was hard to love.
I became cold,
but I was never heartless—
just tired of being the only one
who showed up.

But something shifted.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just slowly—
like the way wounds close
when you stop picking at them.

Now I don’t chase.
I choose.
I don’t beg.
I build.
I speak softly
because I’ve learned
my silence holds power
too many tried to steal.

I still remember the pain,
but it doesn’t define me.
It forged me.
Shaped me.
Tested me
without warning
and still—I rose.

So don’t mistake this calm for weakness.
It’s the peace I earned
after surviving storms
you couldn’t stand in.

I’m not who I was—
and thank God.
Because now?
I walk like I know my worth.
Because I do.
And I’ll never hand it to someone
who doesn’t know what it costs.

Some nights I just stare
at the ceiling
like it’s got answers
I ain’t ready for.
My chest don’t rise right,
my thoughts don’t land clean,
but I’m still here
still waking up.
And that’s gotta count
for something.

I carry too much silence
in a world
that only listens
when you scream.
But I’m not built for drama.
I’m built for storms.
For staying standing
when everything else breaks.

People left.
People lied.
People looked me in the eyes
and promised forever
with fingers crossed.
And yeah,
that used to **** me.

But now I let go
without warning.
No second chances.
No half-closed doors.
Just me,
the weight,
and whatever peace
I can wrestle from the night.

This ink ain’t for show.
It’s my scripture.
My history.
My survival in symbols.
The jester on my skin—
that’s the laugh I wear
when pain starts talking too loud.

I’m not bitter.
Just aware.
Just done
with hoping people
will be who I needed
when I needed them.

I’ve made peace with the mess.
I talk to the mirror
without flinching now.
I know who I am.
And more importantly
I know who I’m not.

I’ve bent,
I’ve broken,
but I never folded.
And I won’t start now.

My hand tells stories
before my mouth finds words
rosary wrapped in ink,
just like my father’s,
a chain that frees me
as it reminds me
of faith, pain, bloodline,
and this life I’m learning to live.

LIVE / LIFE
etched across my knuckles,
a vow I whisper to myself,
a tribute to Juice’s beats
that spoke my unspoken grief,
the echo that lingers
when every note falls silent.

I left once,
but my soul stayed behind
Phoenix in body,
Florida in my heart,
brakes held since sixteen
under the weight
of things no kid should bear.

I’ve bled in conversations
that never heard me;
loved people who only saw
the parts they wanted.
I cut ties
but not before the ache
cut deeper.

Loyalty is my scar,
visible only to those
who look close enough
and I remember:
my dad, my siblings,
even the ex I couldn’t forget.

I don’t trust easy
but I haven’t stopped feeling;
I just learned
where to hide the ache.

I swagger in my jokes,
walk silent in the crowd,
carry more than my weight
but beneath it all
there’s something soft,
like my unfinished rose,
still blooming,
still becoming.

I’ve been stuck
but never broken;
alone
but never empty
and every day
I choose to keep moving
even when the world
doesn’t cheer.

That’s my strength:
not just survival,
but transformation
the slow becoming
of someone who finally
chooses themselves
every
****
time.