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Poem

Is heaven real?
Maybe.
Or maybe it’s just another myth—
like love that stays,
like people who mean what they say,
like pain that disappears
when you’ve earned enough of it.

They say
everything happens for a reason.
But all I see
is the bleeding
you have to call “growth,”
and the silence
you have to pretend is peace.

God, I loved.
With everything I had.
With parts of me I should’ve kept.
And all it gave me
was the echo of my name
in an empty room
where even the walls forgot me.

They said love redeems.
But I only learned
how to bleed for someone
who never looked back.
Is that heaven too?
To hurt so much
and still hope?

Time goes in circles—
you think you’ve left the pain behind,
but it loops.
It waits.
It whispers:
“What if it was real?”
And you want to believe,
but you're too scared
to reach out again—
too scared to break
in the same shape twice.

They say heaven is above.
But what if it’s buried—
in all the times
you should have died inside
but didn’t?

What if heaven is
waking up again
after a night that nearly killed you?
What if it’s crying
and not hiding it?
What if it’s you,
right now,
reading these words
and still standing?

Then maybe,
just maybe—
heaven is real.
And maybe
it’s already inside you.
Hidden
in the ashes
where heaven should be.

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