Why am I still here?
The question wakes with me.
I was there too,
long ago.
A dark room.
A locked door.
Hands that weren’t supposed to hurt.
But through the cracks,
like a weed or a miracle,
somehow I grew.
Now I walk among ghosts.
Friends lost to needles,
or bottles,
or bullets,
and their own exhausted hearts.
I carry their stories with me,
not because I earned my escape,
but because I didn't.
Some nights, the air tastes like guilt.
It whispers:
Why not you?
There is no answer.
Only the quiet ache
of living
when they could not.
--
https://beckypoems.blogspot.com/2025/04/the-circle.html
We lost one today. Another young life cut short. I didn't know her well, but I know her pain all too well.
I think your friend would tell you, if she could, to live your life as fully as you can - live it for those who didnt or couldnt make it, for whom the pain was too great. Live it in their memory, tell their stories. Thanks for your comment on my wild woman poem. I am glad you young ones have hope and courage for the old guard has left a dismal mess that will take strong hearts to turn around. Sigh. If anyone should feel guilty, it is them but of course one has to have empathy to feel guilt.
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