Finding Myself
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Changing does not betray the woman she was; it simply means some survival versions no longer need permanent rooms inside her.
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Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
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Where answers should have been, silence leaves echoes, imagined explanations, and the question of whether disappearing was the destination all along.
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Becoming means naming who she is now without softening it, and deciding which old versions no longer get to come along.
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Some feelings live between grief, longing, relief, and fear—too complicated for one word and too real to ignore.
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A tarot reading beneath a quiet moon becomes less about prediction and more about listening to the truths already waiting inside.
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A worn deck becomes less about prophecy than permission—to rest, leave, grieve, become, and trust her own choices.
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Between shadow and soul, bruises, grief, cigarettes, rescue, and blooming all belong to the same map of becoming.
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The questions changed from who will love me to what part of myself I buried, and suddenly the cards became kinder.
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At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
Between Bruises & Blooms 