I’m Not Giving Up
I’m friends with my demons
because they were the only ones
who didn’t leave
when I fell apart quietly
and nobody noticed.
They sat with me
in the kind of silence
that makes your chest ache —
the silence you learn to live in
because asking for help
started to feel like begging.
They’ve seen me on the bathroom floor
at 3 a.m.,
hands shaking,
heart bruised from holding in
everything I didn’t have words for.
They didn’t comfort me.
They didn’t save me.
They just stayed —
and sometimes
that was enough.
I’ve tried to kill them off
with hope,
with routine,
with pretending I was fine.
But they always came back,
gentler than before,
like they knew
I wasn’t ready to let go
of the parts of me
that hurt the most.
So now we walk together.
Not as enemies.
Not as friends.
More like two tired souls
who’ve realised
they’re made of the same story.
And if you’re reading this
with a lump in your throat,
wondering why it feels familiar —
maybe it’s because
you’ve made peace
with your monsters too.
Maybe you’ve learned,
like I did,
that healing isn’t about
banishing the dark.
It’s about learning
to carry a light
that flickers
but never fully goes out.
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