Stay (you saved my life)

I was tired of pretending that I was fine. I was breathing, but barely, just killing time.

The clinic felt like nowhere, with white walls and borrowed days. They gave me words for the chaos—borderline, afraid. 

I know what it’s like to fight your own head, to wake up ashamed of the things that were said. 

I know how the darkness turns truth into lies, makes you feel worthless while you’re just trying to survive.

I thought I was too much—a problem, a weight. I didn’t want to exist; I just wanted the pain to fade.

But you weren’t too much. You were hurting inside, and somehow, against all odds, you stayed alive.

Stay when the voice in your head says “go.” Stay when you feel unlovable.

Your tears don’t make you weak; your scars don’t mean you failed. And if tonight you can’t hold yourself together, I’ll help you stay.

There were days the pain inside had to leave my skin, because feeling something physical beat feeling nothing within. 

I hated every mark I made, like proof I was ashamed. But now I see they’re evidence I didn’t walk away.

You’re not broken; you’re overwhelmed. And survival isn’t pretty, but it’s real as hell.

You don’t owe anyone answers for how you got through. You did what you had to, and I’m glad you’re still you.

Stay when you don’t recognize yourself. Stay when you can’t ask for help.

This story’s still breathing, even when you don’t believe. And if you forget your reason to live, borrow mine—stay.

Your songs were the nights I didn’t die—goosebumps, tears, and one more sunrise.

If my voice reached you when no one else could, 

then music did exactly what I hoped it would.

Stay. You don’t need fixing. Stay. 

You’re not too late.

You survived—not quietly, 

not perfectly, but honestly. 

And that saved your life

I’m still here, and that matters. 

This is my thank you for staying.