Between Bruises & Blooms

I have learned
that grief does not always leave—
sometimes it grows roots
beneath the ribs
and learns how to bloom there.

So I stopped trying
to rip it out.

I water the ache
with every morning
I manage to become.

I let the ghosts sit beside me
without giving them
the whole damn house.

There are still nights
when everything inside me
sounds like breaking glass,

but morning keeps finding me.

Barefoot.
Bruised.
Still breathing.

And maybe healing
was never becoming untouched again.

Maybe it is this—

carrying every version
of myself that almost disappeared
into the sunlight,

and saying,

look.

We made it here.