Between Bruises and Blooms

They think
work
is only the kind
that pays you
every second Friday.

But tonight,
I am building
something
no one else can see.

One poem.

One page.

One sentence
at a time.

I am planting words
where bruises used to bloom alone.

I am teaching grief
how to become art.

Teaching survival
how to become a story
someone else
might one day
need.

My phone rings.

A missed call.

A request.

Another small thing
asking
for another piece of me.

But I am busy.

Not avoiding.

Not hiding.

Just finally
choosing
to spend an evening
building
my own future
instead of carrying
someone else’s.

So yes—

I’m working.

Maybe not
the kind of work
that fills a timesheet.

But the kind
that fills
a life.