You Haven't Lived Yet | Sreedhari Desai

You haven't lived yet

you think you’ve lived
because you mixed top-shelf gin
with your tonic
and the bartender knew your name?

you think you’ve lived
because you posted something clever
and small hearts blinked like dumb fireflies
on your little blue screen?

no.

life doesn’t start
until you’re in a bathroom
that smells like old rain and bad decisions
staring at a cracked mirror
trying to decide

do I walk back out there
and tell the truth
or do I lie again
because it’s easier
and everybody already expects me to

it doesn’t start
until you’re holding a phone
over a concrete floor at 1 a.m.,
thumb hovering over a name
you promised you’d never call again
and your chest is a busted engine
and you know
either way you’re going to hate yourself
in the morning

that’s living

when the boss says
it’s him or you
and “him” has a wife, a kid,
a framed drawing in his cubicle
and you’re sitting there
with the email draft open
calculating the price
of your rent
against the cost
of being a decent human

when you’re staring at your father
in a hospital bed
he shrinks a little more every visit
and the doctor asks
do we keep trying
and your mother looks at you
like you’re some kind of priest
and suddenly
you’re the one
who decides
how much longer a man breathes

you haven’t lived
until you’ve signed papers
you knew were wrong
because it meant your sister
could keep the house

until you’ve told a friend
no, I won’t lend you anymore
and watched the light go out
in his eyes
because the needle
already owns him

you haven’t lived
until you’ve walked away
from someone who loved you clean
because you loved someone dirty
just a little bit more

everybody wants joy,
sure,
the sunshine,
the ripe peach,
the cool sheets,
the better job,
the bigger window,

but the real ticket gets punched
in those busted rooms
where the good options
never showed up

when you’re choosing
between your pride
and your survival,
between telling the truth
and keeping the door unlocked
for another month

that’s where the heart
gets teeth

the world isn’t made
in meditation apps
and tidy inspirational quotes

it’s made
when you’re in the back of a bus
with one bag,
half a plan,
and nobody waiting for you
at any stop

it’s made in cheap motels
where you decide
whether you pour the whiskey
down your throat
or down the sink

it’s made in those ugly, crooked hours
when the universe
slides a filthy little question
across the table and says:

okay, smartass,
who are you really?

you haven’t lived
until you’ve answered that
with shaking hands,
knowing full well
there is no right answer,

only the one
you’re willing
to carry.