The Second Climb

There is a silence that comes after losing,

not the soft kind,

but the kind that presses your chest into the floorboards,

the kind that makes air feel like something you have to earn.

You stare at the wreckage and the hours you gave,

then you count all of the pieces of yourself that you broke off to feed the dream.

You begin to locate the bruises that you tried to name “progress.”

All of it in ruins.

People tell you to stand,

but they do not see how defeat digs its nails into your bones.

They do not see,

how it whispers,"Stay down. You belong here."

Trying again isn't romantic,

it’s dragging the weight of your last failure behind you like a second skin.

Trying again,

Is watching your hands shake as you reach for the same door that slammed on you before,

it’s knowing that you might lose again;

it’s knowing it will hurt just as much.

And still,

you rise into the light,

not because you’re sure you’ll make it,

but because some small ember in you refuses to go out.