Sick of it

This poem gives voice to the moment when endurance turns into resolve.

It reflects on the experience of carrying thoughts, patterns, or wounds that gradually come to feel less like visitors and more like unwelcome occupants. While they may once have arrived for understandable reasons, they eventually begin taking up space that belongs to something healthier.

Sometimes healing begins not with understanding.

Sometimes it begins by deciding that enough is enough.

This poem came from reaching a breaking point.

Not the kind where everything falls apart, but the quieter realization that I had become accustomed to carrying ways of being that no longer felt like mine. Stress, fear, old narratives, and protective patterns had become so familiar that I almost stopped noticing how much space they occupied.

The image of “vagrants” emerged because that's genuinely how they felt. They weren't evil, and many of them had probably arrived for reasons that once made sense. But over time they had overstayed their welcome. They had begun treating my inner life as though it belonged to them.

One of my favorite images is calling the body a temple. Not because I see it as something fragile or untouchable, but because it reminds me that what we allow to remain within us shapes the atmosphere we live in every day.

I don't hear this poem as an act of rejection as much as one of reclamation.

There comes a point where healing is no longer about making peace with everything we've carried.

It's about choosing what we are willing to keep carrying into the future.

And evicting the rest.