Mending
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Choosing joy does not erase old pain; it simply refuses to let every bruise, promise, and goodbye own the rest of the story.
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The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
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The moon could not return what was lost, but beneath it she learned to stop asking the sky to rebuild a life only she could keep living.
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The forest becomes a burial ground for old apologies, dead promises, and the version of herself who kept begging people to stay.
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She stopped mistaking chaos for love and learned to turn around when a road makes the body remember fear.
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The past still lives in courtrooms, hospitals, and old names, but each morning the garden keeps proving life can grow beside memory.
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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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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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At three in the morning, survival looks less like magic and more like a chipped mug, vitamins, cold water, and the promise to wake up tomorrow.
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Unsent words become birds inside the chest, then paper cranes once she accepts that some stories will never reach their destination.
