I still hear him.

There’s a version of me that never left the block.
He’s still out there—leaning against a graffiti-tagged wall,
hood over his eyes, pistol in his waistband,
a syringe in his pocket, pain in his chest.
That version of me never learned to sleep easy.
He twitches when doors slam.
He sees ghosts where others see shadows.
He doesn’t know peace.
He just knows survival.

But me? I live a good life now.

I wake up in a real bed.
I open my eyes without having to count the dead.
I work. I help people.
Sometimes I even laugh without guilt.
I go to meetings, church, and community boards.
I build things now. I fix what I can.
But no matter how far I’ve come,
I still hear the old me calling.

He doesn’t yell.
He whispers.

“You remember, don’t you?”
he says in a voice roughened by smoke and sorrow.
“You remember who we lost,
what we did,
what we had to do.”

And I do. God help me, I remember everything.

I remember the blood on my shoes.
The sirens that came too late.
The homegirls crying in alleyways.
The way the dope numbed me until it didn’t.
The pain. The rush. The war in my mind.
How many funerals I skipped because I was too high to cry.
How many faces I carry in my soul like scars.

I remember promising I’d never forget.
And I haven’t.
But remembering ain’t the same as staying.

That voice—the old me—he’s not the enemy.
He’s the proof I survived.

He carried me when nobody else would.
He fought so I could one day choose peace.
He was loud, reckless, addicted, angry—but he was trying.
Trying not to drown.
Trying to outrun death, or maybe invite it.
But I outran it.
We outran it.

Now I live in a world he never imagined.
One with quiet mornings and clean sheets.
With hope.
With purpose.
With grace.

I still hear him, sure.
But I don’t follow him anymore.

I listen.
I nod.
And then I remind him:
“You did your part. Let me do mine.”

Because healing ain’t forgetting.
Healing is remembering and still choosing to live.
Fully.
Freely.
Finally.


God,

You know me better than I know myself.
You saw me long before I ever saw You.
You were there in the alleys, the jail cells, the hospital beds.
You heard me when I cried out without making a sound.

I carry a good life now, but some days the past still bleeds through.
I still see faces I can’t forget.
I still feel the tremble in my hands, the cold of the sidewalk,
the weight of guilt that never asked for permission to stay.

God, I thank You for the mercy that found me.
For the second chance, the breath in my lungs, the peace in my heart.
For the people who didn’t give up on me
even when I had given up on myself.

But I come to You now not just for strength—
I come for surrender.

Help me make peace with the man I used to be.
He was broken, yes—but he was trying.
Help me forgive him. Help me thank him.
Help me let him rest.

When the memories rise, don’t let them drown me.
When the guilt speaks, remind me of Your grace.
When PTSD steals my sleep, be the voice that soothes my soul.
Be the calm in my storm. The stillness in my shaking.

And God, when I feel like slipping—
when the streets start calling, when the old me whispers—
remind me that I’m not him anymore.
That I’m not who I was—I’m who You say I am.

Redeemed.
Restored.
Alive on purpose.

I lift my scars to You as proof that You’re real.
And I walk forward—carrying the memory,
but anchored in mercy.

Amen.

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