Why am I this mad
over something that was never mine?
Why does it burn
like something was stolen
when it was never in my hands to begin with?
A job.
A maybe.
A half-promise wrapped in polite interview etiquette.
A chance I thought I had
but never really did.
Are you allowed to grieve something
you never actually held?
How do you bleed
when you were never even cut?
It’s not about the job.
It’s about the fear.
The fear of not being enough.
Of being passed over.
Of being invisible
in a world that screams for confidence
but doesn’t notice you unless you’re already standing on a pedestal
made of corporate pandering and luck.
I fear being stuck.
I fear being broke.
I fear needing help
in a world that tells you to hustle
while watching you drown.
I fear being dependent.
On people.
On kindness.
On crumbs.
I fear not making it.
Not mattering.
Not surviving.
Not becoming anything more than a cautionary tale.
And yeah.
These fears feel real.
They sit in my chest
like unpaid rent.
They whisper in my ear
with voices that sound like mine.
But feelings aren’t facts.
And fear isn’t prophecy.
And pain doesn’t mean I’m broken
it means I care.
I am allowed to feel this.
To rage.
To scream.
To be bitter for a second.
To grieve the things I almost had.
But I don’t have to stay there.
I don’t have to carry this.
These fears?
They’re loud, but they’re not real.
They’re echoes.
They’re lies with good marketing.
They’re ghosts wearing the faces of my doubts.
I can name them.
I can feel them.
And then I can let.
Them.
Go.