Between Bruises and Blooms

Some call it escape.

Maybe they’re right.

But sometimes it’s the only place my shoulders remember how to unclench.

The world demands I carry grief like it’s weightless.

Cannabis asks nothing.

Only, “Sit for a while.”

So I do.

I breathe.

I watch thoughts stop colliding long enough to hear my own heartbeat beneath the noise.

Not every smoke is about forgetting.

Sometimes it’s about finally remembering who I was before survival became my full-time job.