Between Bruises and Blooms

There are nights
when the world expects me
to carry everything
with steady hands.

The memories.
The grief.
The questions
that never learned
how to answer themselves.

So I step outside.

The air is cool,
the stars indifferent,
and the lighter clicks
like the beginning
of a conversation.

The smoke doesn’t promise
to fix me.

It doesn’t erase
the empty chairs,
the court dates,
or the names
I still whisper
when no one is listening.

It simply asks me
to stay.

To breathe
one slow breath
instead of ten panicked ones.

To notice
the wind moving
through the trees.

To remember
that surviving
is sometimes quieter
than people expect.

They’ll see the smoke.

They won’t see
the journal waiting
on the kitchen table.

They won’t see
the coffee growing cold,
the lunches packed,
the little shoes
lined up by the door.

They’ll never smell
the determination
hidden beneath the ash.

Only the cannabis
gets judged.

Not the mother.
Not the writer.
Not the woman
who kept choosing tomorrow
even when yesterday
still clung to her skin.

Maybe healing
has never looked
the same for everyone.

Maybe mine
has always smelled
like cedar,
night air,
and a little bit
of honest smoke.