Ashes Where Heaven Should Be

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.