Chapters
I thought my story was written,
predetermined—every line,
but I tore it at the spine
and grabbed a pen with time.
A new chapter, new characters, new me,
I hold the power
to tell it how I see.
There’s a book in a nook
in the corner of the room,
my life on a shelf—
prewritten, you’d assume.
But it’s not.
I pause, I think…
what if I start?
Let the ink spill freely,
let it shape my heart.
No ending set, no path confined,
just words unfolding
one line at a time.
There are moments, as I write this new version of me,
I’m pulled back through pages
I thought I’d let be.
Old chapters echo—
I’m forced to reread,
but the ink feels softer now,
less pressure, less bleed.
The beginning was heavy,
dramatic, traumatic—hard to face,
erratic in rhythm,
a difficult place.
But it’s part of the story,
the root, the core,
a chapter I lived through—
but don’t live in anymore.
It once read like horror,
and I watched from within,
until I closed that chapter
and chose where I begin.
Now I hold the pen—
and it feels like a sword,
cutting new paths
with every word.
There’s more romance now,
more laughter, more light,
the story unfolding
no longer just fight.
It almost feels like
two women, two lives—
but they’re one and the same,
just rewritten… revised.
Copyright © Rebecca Campbell | Year Posted 2026
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