The past does not vanish,
it lingers like smoke in the lungs,
like scars beneath healed skin.

You say, forget,
but memories are stubborn
they carve names into your bones,
etch shadows into your laughter.

Every step forward
drags echoes behind it,
chains disguised as silence.

The present trembles,
the future bends,
all colored by yesterday’s hand.

You live, yes,
but not untouched.
Circumstances brand you,
not with fire,
but with the quiet ruin
of what could have been.

And still,
you breathe through the ash,
carrying both the wound
and the will to rise.