The Path That Made You

To move forward is sometimes to retrace—

The steps you were given, the ones that betrayed,

The same road that broke you, the same road you pave.

For when you are hurt, you walk in their ways.

The path is a mirror.

Each stone laid in hate—

Not by choice, but by hand, by a cruel twist of fate.

The cycle repeats.

You swear you’re free—

And yet, here you stand.

Where you swore you’d not be.

You build what you know.

For what else can you make?

You were shaped by the fire,

And you carry its ache.

You build with the bruises,

You carve with the scars,

Not knowing—

The tools you hold were never yours.

But listen:

The path you walk is a ghost—

A shadow that whispers,

A past that you host.

If you live with its anger,

You wear the same chains.

The hurt you endured

Becomes the hurt you create.

Because the path you set

Is the one you were set on.

It winds like a serpent,

Devouring its tail.

The steps you take forward

Are steps doomed to fail.

The mirror does not lie.

It shows the same road, the same weight,

It asks: Is this the future, or just the past—replayed?

To move forward is sometimes—

To stop.

To sever the road,

To silence the past,

To bury the path that made you—

At last.

For the only escape is not to repair,

But to walk away, though the ground stays bare.

Abandon the path.

Shatter the mirror—

And step through the shards.

Refuse to align.

What hurt you does not have to be

Yours to define.

Carve a new path.

One that is yours to design.

And when you turn back—

The path will not lead you.

For you will have left it

Far, far behind.