Between Bruises & Blooms

I am no longer

the woman

who mistakes survival

for love.

No longer

counting apologies

like prayer beads,

waiting for them

to become miracles.

I am tired.

Not the kind of tired

that sleep can mend,

but the kind

left behind

by courtrooms,

empty bedrooms,

missed phone calls,

and carrying

too many versions

of myself

at once.

Still—

I wake.

I make coffee.

I write.

I kiss scraped knees,

wipe tiny faces,

laugh at kittens

who believe

the world

belongs to them.

Somehow,

that is enough

to keep becoming.

I am becoming

the mother

my children

will remember

for her warmth,

not her wounds.

The woman

who plants flowers

where people

expected graves.

The poet

who stopped asking

permission

to tell the truth.

What am I leaving behind?

The habit

of shrinking

to fit

inside someone else’s

comfort.

The belief

that being chosen

is the same

as being cherished.

The version of me

who apologized

for surviving.

She carried me

this far.

She doesn’t have

to carry me

any farther.