Sometimes I think that even I can't save myself,
like a lighthouse watching its own bulb dim
through sheets of rain it cannot part.
I carry maps with torn corners,
directions smudged by years of handling,
and still I wander circles
around the same abandoned questions.
Some mornings,
hope is nothing more than a loose thread
caught on the nail of a passing hour.
I pull at it carefully,
afraid the whole sky might unravel.
The mirror knows my silences by name.
It keeps every version of me:
the brave one,
the scared one,
the one who stayed awake counting exits
instead of dreams.
Yet somewhere beneath the wreckage,
under the rusted beams of old failures,
a small stubborn thing survives.
Not faith. Not certainty. Just a pulse.
A quiet insistence
that rivers carve canyons without permission,
that winter's bare trees are not dead,
that broken compasses still point somewhere.
So when the night leans heavily against my chest,
and the dark speaks with my own voice,
I answer:
Maybe I can't save myself all at once.
Maybe no one ever does.
Maybe survival is simply
becoming your own outstretched hand,
again and again,
until the dawn finally learns your name.
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