dawn
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She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
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Morning arrives from the wrong side of insomnia, catching her awake as darkness packs itself away one pale color at a time.
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
Between Bruises & Blooms 