Nobody Can Fuck With Me Now

No reaching, no chasing. No knife at my neck disguised as ambition.

I rode home with the sky on my back

and silence where the ache used to live.

Not joy—

something older than that.

Something earned.

My legs moved like they knew the way

even if I didn’t.

No reaching, no chasing.

No knife at my neck

disguised as ambition.

If I die now,

it won’t be a tragedy.

It’ll be a full stop—

dignified,

grateful,

mine.

Let them say

she was ready.

Let them say

she came home to herself

and never needed to ask again.

Because nobody

can fuck with me now.

Not after what I’ve walked through.

Not after what I buried

and still bloomed from.