Between Bruises & Blooms

The house remembers
every version of me
who lived here.

The walls know
which nights
I cried quietly

and which ones
I didn’t bother
being quiet at all.

The kitchen remembers
me standing barefoot
beneath the yellow light,

too tired to sleep,
too restless to sit,

waiting for water to boil
as though a cup of coffee
could somehow explain
what I was supposed
to do next.

The hallway remembers
little feet.

Laughter.

Crying.

Toys abandoned
in places
I swore I’d just cleaned.

It remembers me
stepping over them,

sometimes irritated,

sometimes stopping
because I knew

one day

there would be no toys
to step over.

My bedroom
has met more versions
of me than any mirror.

The woman in love.

The woman waiting
for a message.

The woman staring
at her phone
and finally understanding

silence
was an answer too.

The woman who slept
with babies against her chest.

The woman who couldn’t sleep
at all.

The woman who curled
beneath blankets
and wondered how much longer
she could keep carrying
everything.

And the woman
who got up anyway.

The bathroom mirror
has watched me change.

Not beautifully.

Not all at once.

There were no butterflies.

No cinematic moment
where I suddenly recognized
the woman staring back.

Just mornings.

Thousands of them.

Hair tangled.

Eyes tired.

Children calling
from another room.

Another day beginning
before I had decided
whether I was ready for it.

This house
has heard names
I don’t say anymore.

It has held people
who no longer belong
inside these walls.

It has watched doors close

and waited quietly
while I learned
not to reopen them.

Sometimes,

late at night,

when everyone is sleeping,

I walk through the rooms
and feel them—

all those old versions
of myself.

Not ghosts.

Not exactly.

More like fingerprints
pressed into the bones
of the place.

The woman who hoped.

The woman who broke.

The woman who begged.

The woman who stayed.

The woman who finally left.

The mother.

The mourner.

The lover.

The survivor.

All of us
still somewhere here.

And maybe that’s why
this house feels different
after midnight.

It isn’t haunted.

It’s remembering.

And tonight,

when the floorboards
creak beneath my feet,

I don’t wonder
what ghost
is walking beside me.

I know her.

She has worn
every face I’ve ever had.

So I whisper,

thank you
for getting me here,

and keep walking

toward the woman
this house
hasn’t met yet.