Devenir
(to become, without arriving)
written by: Michael Ridinger
They tell you life’s a noun.
Something you can laminate.
Hang on a wall between the exit sign
and a faded photo of a man
who used to sing better
than this place deserved.
But life smells like stale beer and bleach,
like rain trapped in hot asphalt.
It’s the sound of a jukebox coughing up
the wrong song at the right time
and nobody having the heart to skip it.
Life is what happens
while you’re still clearing your throat.
While your mouth is full of apologies
you practiced but never meant.
While the night keeps moving
and doesn’t bother asking your plans.
There’s a woman at the end of the bar—
perfume fighting cigarettes,
hands shaking just enough to notice.
She laughs like it costs her something.
That’s not tragedy.
That’s rent paid another month.
Devenir—
not the inspirational-poster kind,
but the kind that limps,
that wipes blood on its jeans
and calls it good enough for Sunday.
Devenir is realizing the version of you
that everyone applauded
was built out of borrowed parts—
a voice you learned to fake,
a spine trained to bend
at the wrong moments.
There’s a man asleep in the booth,
face down in grace and bourbon,
murmuring a prayer he doesn’t believe in anymore
but keeps saying
in case Someone’s still listening.
They call it growth.
I call it losing parts of yourself
your bones were never built to hold.
Devenir hurts in specific places.
Knees.
Throat.
The quiet hour before morning
when your courage hasn’t clocked in yet
and you consider disappearing politely.
Sometimes it’s funny—
dark, sideways funny—
like learning the thing you feared most
already happened
and you still ordered the coffee.
Devenir—
even when you swear you’re fine,
your hands keep telling the truth
you won’t say out loud.
You don’t arrive clean.
You don’t finish whole.
You just keep showing up—
less armored,
slightly more honest—
hoping that passes
for grace.
- Devenir - February 22, 2026
- Hollowed Howl - October 16, 2025
- Through The Static - July 18, 2025
