Living with Hope

It began with the eagerness of hope,

the longing, burning, raging need to reach

the unattainable—that gift which I

never thought I would call my own. There were

scars still, written across my arms like a

difficult stain—no matter how hard you

scrub, the remnants are still there, still a part

of you that will never completely fade.


Hope turned to despair, turned to loss, turned to

desperation. For a way out, a way

home. A face without a destination.

It is amazing: how durable the

human spirit can be, even when it

has been beaten, blown away, torn to shreds.

I lived, and I survived, and I faced what

I never thought I would. I faced my life.


I meet new faces, and I explore, and

I taste life in a way I never have,

Pay attention to its awful sweetness.

I fall in love, and I know it is real,

And I need, crave, beg for it to work out.

It doesn’t. not this time. I fall into

that despair again, let the glue melt off,

let the brokenness consume all of me.




But it is not like it was before, and

this time, with fragile strength, I pick myself

up again, glued together, some pieces

still missing but not incomplete, not close.

Time has gifted me this a peace of mind,

a knowledge that I can survive, can live

even with the remnants of pain, sorrow.

They exist but do not pull me under.


Time: days, weeks, months have

defined me, shaped me, made

me strong. There is pain,

but now it exists

with one defining trait:

hope. The circle is complete,

and again, I can live with hope.

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