I tell the worst parts of myself
to people the world doesn’t trust.
Liars.
Thieves.
Drunks.
Addicts.
They don’t interrupt.
They don’t correct me.
They just listen
like they already know the ending.
The air hangs heavy
with fresh cigarettes and stale ones,
coffee that’s been burned
and coffee that’s just been poured.
That smell pulls me in
before a single word is spoken.
Plastic chairs.
Bad lighting.
Nothing here pretending to be holy.
They tell their stories
and some of them are so fucked up
I catch myself breathing easier.
Not proud.
Just relieved.
Maybe I’m not as far gone
as the voice in my head insists.
I say things out loud
that I’ve never trusted
to say anywhere else.
No one rescues me.
No one pretends they’re better.
I leave carrying less
than I brought in.
And somehow
that’s enough
to come back.
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