The Month That Tried to Steal Everything

August.

I hate this month.

It’s the one that took Papa from me.
The one where I hit my lowest point—the month I almost didn’t make it.
The one where grief wrapped itself around my throat and didn’t let go.
The one that still echoes with silence I’ll never unhear.

And yet...
Somewhere in the middle of all that darkness—me and my brother were born.
Life began for us in the same month so much ended.

How am I supposed to celebrate a birthday when the air still feels like grief?
When I still flinch at memories I didn’t ask for?
When I still wonder if surviving was a gift… or just a long, drawn-out sentence?

The truth? I don’t have neat answers.
All I know is—I’m still here.

I’m still here, even when August rolls around like a storm that doesn’t miss.
I’m still here, even when the memories claw at my skin.
I’m still here, even when the voice in my head whispers I shouldn’t be.

But I am. And that counts for something.

Maybe this month did steal things from me.
But I’ve also taken things back—my breath, my fight, my voice.

So this year, I’ll light two flames.
One for Papa. To honor the man who gave me love, laughter, and stories that still live in me.
And one for me. For surviving. For staying. For fighting like hell to get to today.

If August thought it could break me, it should’ve known—I’ve got fire too.