Harder to Kill (Patreon)

Words by me, art by the incredible Royale (royale.bsky.social). I'm so grateful they brought their talent to this piece. Please check out their work.

This is for everyone who got up today when staying down would've been easier.

The full text...Harder to Kill

I know how this ends.I have always known.The way you know weather by the ache in your knees,the way you know the milk has turnedbefore you open the cap.

I carry the ending with me everywhere I go,folded into my coat pocketnext to the receipt from the last timeI tried.

I'll try again.That's not courage.

Courage is what you call itwhen you're telling the story later,when the ending is goodand you need a wordfor the middle partwhere you almost didn't make it.

If the ending is bad,nobody calls it courage.They call it sad.

So it's not that.It's something smallermeanerharder to kill.

It's the voice that says:If you stop now,you did this.If you sit down on the sidewalkand let the rain have you,if you fold your handsand say I knew it, I always knew it,then every person who ever doubted yougets to be rightand you made it easy.You handed them the verdictand thanked them for their time.I won't do that.I won't give them the clean endingwhere the girl gave upand it was, honestly, probably for the best,she was never really built for it,you could tell,you could always tell.

No.If I'm going down,I'm going down reaching.I'm going down with my hand on the knoband my shoulder against the doorand my whole stupid bodypressed into the effort,so that anyone watchinghas to say:

She tried.She tried so hardit was almost embarrassing.She tried past the pointwhere trying made sense.

And maybe that's pathetic.Maybe the smart thing is to learnfrom the pattern,read the data,draw the rational conclusionand stop.

But I have never been smart about this.I have been relentless about this,which is different,which is worse,which is the only setting I have leftnow that the others have all burned out.

I know what they'll say.

They'll say, she never gave herself a break.They'll say, she couldn't let it go.They'll say, she kept applying pressureto a wound that wanted to close.And who does that?Who picks the scab every morningand calls it a routine?

I do that.

I do that because the wound is mineand the blood is mineand the scar, if it ever comes,will also be mine,and I refuse to let it healinto a shape I didn't choose.

But if I keep goingand the door still doesn't open,that's not me.That's the door.That's the lock. The wood. The hinges.That's the worlddeciding I'm not enough,and the world has been wrong before,about a lot of things,about the shape of the earthand the center of the skyand I would rather be rightand rejectedthan wrongand safe.

So I get up.

Not because I believe tomorrow is different.Not because I've found some reserve of faithhidden under the mattressor at the bottom of the glass.

I get up because the alternativeis a story where I stopped,and I can survive anythingexcept being the onewho lost it for her.