Between Bruises and Blooms

I am
the woman
who learned
flowers can bloom
through cracked concrete.

I am
coffee gone cold,
half-smoked cigarettes,
wind in my hair,
and poetry
scribbled between
the ordinary moments.

I am
the keeper
of old photographs,
stray cats,
forgotten stories,
and promises
I still whisper
to the stars.

I am
every goodbye
that tried to define me,
and every sunrise
that refused
to let it.

I am
equal parts
bruise and bloom.

I am
still healing,
still hoping,
still becoming.

And every day,

I choose
to become
a little more
myself.