No One Was Coming

How I became the one I was waiting for.

No one was coming. Not when the screams were silent. Not when the air turned to stone and I swallowed every sob like it might make me easier to love.

I waited with open hands. I waited in dresses soaked with apology. I waited at the bottom of the well until I forgot the sound of my own name.

And still— no rope. No voice. No rescue.

Just the echo of "be smaller." Be softer. Be less.

I carved tally marks into the dark. I braided hope from spiderwebs. I whispered spells into the dirt and called it prayer.

I thought if I could be good enough, quiet enough, forgiving enough— someone would come.

But no one came.

And one day, through the silence, I heard something else.

Me. Calling from somewhere deeper. Not weaker—wiser. Not broken—becoming.

I was the rope. I was the hands. I was the storm and the shelter.

So I rose. Feral. Flawed. Free.

With scraped knees and eyes that had seen too much. With shaking fists and a heart that still chose light.

I climbed out. Not because someone pulled me— but because I decided I was worth rising for.

No one was coming. So I came. And I am still coming for every piece of me that ever thought I had to wait to be saved.

I’m not waiting anymore. I’m built to stay.