it’s not a clean break.
it’s jagged edges,
the kind that catch your skin
when you think you’re through.

starting over smells like cheap coffee,
burnt toast,
a mattress on the floor
in a room with no curtains.
it’s a box you haven’t opened in months
because you know what’s inside,
and you can’t bear to see it.

they tell you it’s a blank slate.
but it’s not.
it’s a slate you tried to wipe clean,
but the chalk never really fades, does it?
some words stick.
some moments refuse to let go.

starting over is 3 a.m.
staring at the ceiling,
asking yourself what went wrong.
or worse, what could’ve gone right.
it’s carrying the weight of things
you said you’d leave behind—
but they pack themselves anyway.

you think it’s about the new,
but it’s not.
it’s about sitting with the old,
learning not to flinch when it whispers your name.
it’s about looking in the mirror
and not hating what you see.

starting over doesn’t happen in one day.
it’s not a moment,
it’s a thousand moments.
small.
invisible.
silent.
it’s the decision to stay when the door is wide open.
to try when no one’s watching.

there’s no hero in this story,
just you.
just you and the weight you carry,
the weight you choose to keep,
and the weight you finally let go.