The Bruised Decision

Forgive me for the rooms I missed,
the doors I passed
without understanding
someone was waiting on the other side.

Forgive the words I threw carelessly,
not knowing where they would land,
and the silences I mistook
for kindness.

Forgive what I did not know—
the clues beneath my feet,
the things people tried to tell me
without knowing how to say them.

Forgive the times I should have stayed
and chose something easier.

Forgive me for being too much sometimes—
too much talking,
too much feeling,
too much need to fill the empty space
before I understood
that silence could belong there too.

Forgive the lies I called peace,
the truths I folded small
and tucked somewhere out of sight,
believing hurt might disappear
if no one spoke its name.

Forgive the times I looked at someone
and never saw the storm.

I thought pain announced itself.
I thought I would recognize it.
I did not know
how quietly people can break.

And forgive the younger version of me,
carrying matches through dry grass,
never imagining how far a spark could travel
or how long something could burn
after the hand that started it
had moved on.

I forgive her too.

And I am trying to forgive
the people who failed me.

Not completely.
Not beautifully.
Not all at once.

But slowly,
the way frozen ground loosens
when winter finally begins to leave.

Maybe forgiveness is not grace
falling cleanly from somewhere above.

Maybe it is only this:
the bruised decision
to stop building a life
inside the place where you were hurt.

To open one window.
To leave it open long enough
for something else to find you—

light,
air,
or love.