Versions of Me

A convo with myself.

Versions of Me

I don't remember calling this meeting.
But here we are.
A table I never sat at, filled with faces I know too well.
Some I haven't seen in years.

Some I tried to forget.
Some I swore I'd never become.
But tonight, no one is turned away.
We are all here.
Facing each other.
Ready to finally listen.

The child who dreamed without fear.
The teenager who ached to be understood.
The one who loved too hard.
The one who swore they'd never love again.
The one who made mistakes.
The one who could have done more.
The addict. The healer.
The fighter. The ghost.
The one who forgave.
And the one who didn't make it.
They have all arrived.

The younger me swings their legs, wide-eyed.
"Is this what we became?" they ask.
"Did we make it?"
I want to say yes.
I want to say we got everything we ever wanted.
But I have learned not to lie to myself.
"We are still becoming," I say.
And for some reason, that answer is enough.