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Six Feet Under My Own Words

I never meant to hurt you.

That’s the part I keep coming back to — like if I say it enough, it’ll make it true. I didn’t wake up wanting to break something beautiful. I didn’t plan on being the reason you started pulling away. But somehow, every time, I end up standing in the wreckage asking myself how it got this bad.


I say things I don’t mean when I’m scared. I push when I should hold on. I shut down when I should be honest. And then I watch the distance grow, knowing I helped create it but not knowing how to stop it.


I carry guilt like it’s part of my bones. It follows me into every quiet moment, every late night where my thoughts get loud. I replay the moments I wish I could take back — the tone of my voice, the words I chose, the silence I left behind. And no matter how many times I promise myself I’ll do better, I end up standing in the same place again.


Sometimes I wonder if I’m just built this way — if love and damage come from the same place in me. If I can care deeply and still hurt the people I care about most. That thought terrifies me. Because I don’t want to be someone who destroys the things they love.


I try to apologize. I try to fix it. I try to be softer, kinder, more patient. But regret has a way of piling up, and it gets heavy fast. It starts to feel like I’m digging my own hole, one mistake at a time, watching the light get farther away.


And still, I don’t stop trying. I keep reaching out, even when I’m scared I’ve gone too far. I keep hoping that love can survive my flaws, that growth is still possible, that I’m not past the point of saving.


Because beneath the guilt and the fear, there’s a part of me that wants to be better — not just for myself, but for the people I love. And maybe that’s the only thing keeping me from being completely buried.


-The Healing Chaos 

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