survival
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There is always a roomwith no windows, a metal table,two chairs,a box of tissuessomeone keeps replacingbecause griefnever runs out. This is wherethe worst thingthat ever happened to youbecomes evidence. Where your shaking handsare asked for details. Where strangerswrite downthe color of the walls,the hour,the smell,the sound you madewhen you realizedno one was coming. And somehowyou…
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I dream of angelswith clean handsand mouths full of mercy, but morning always finds mewith smoke in my lungsand old ghostssleeping at the foot of my bed. I have begged heavento leave the porch light on,just once,so I could rememberwhat it feels liketo be expected somewhere. Instead,the dark knows my name. It curls beside melike…
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Grief does not always leave; sometimes it grows roots beneath the ribs until healing means learning how to bloom around it.
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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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She scrubs, folds, and prepares every room as though order could bargain with the universe for the footsteps she is waiting to hear.
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Healing means keeping the truth about mistakes and scars without letting either become the whole story.
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Healing did not make her untouched; it taught roots to grow through wreckage and flowers to feed on what once tried to bury her.
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After years of searching for home in other people’s arms, she realizes the place she kept rebuilding was herself.
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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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A little feral creature arrives with claws, teeth, and every reason not to trust hands—then slowly discovers what softness can mean.
Between Bruises & Blooms 