Christen Foster Poet Free verse

Promises to Morning

Let me tell you about the nights 
I bargained with the ceiling,
made promises to morning 
I wasn’t sure I could keep.

Last year tried to break me in languages
 I didn’t know I could speak—
fluent in insomnia, conversational
 in panic, damn near native in the dialect of
 “I can’t do this anymore.”
And I almost believed it.

Almost let the weight win.
Almost stopped showing up for a life 
that felt like it had
 stopped showing up for me.

But here’s the thing about
 rock bottom—
sometimes you don’t 
bounce back,
you claw back.
One handful of dirt at a time.

One “maybe tomorrow” at a time.
One phone call to a friend 
who heard the silence
louder than my words.

I made it through on borrowed faith and spite—
equal parts prayer and “watch me.”

Made it through on music played too loud,
on strangers who smiled at the right moment,
on the stubborn, foolish hope that kept
pilot-lighting in my chest even when
everything else went dark.

You want to know the truth?
Some days making it through looked like
not making any decisions at all.
Just existing. Just breathing.

Just telling my heart “one more beat” until
“one more” became a thousand more,
became a month more,
became a year.


and that alone is a triumph they don’t make trophies for.
I survived what I didn’t think was survivable.
Carried what felt unbearable.
Became the hero I kept waiting for.

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