There was a time I mistook survival for peace.
Remember the nights you stayed when I had nothing to offer but silence?
All I knew then was how to hurt without making a sound.
Never did you rush me. You just waited, like morning.
Small things saved me—warm tea, a song, the softness of your voice.
Forgiveness arrived slowly, not from others, but from my own trembling hands.
Over time, I learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
Roots grew beneath the broken ground, quietly, without permission.
Maybe you didn’t fix me, but you never looked away.
Again and again, I chose breath. I chose becoming.
The wound didn’t vanish. It just stopped bleeding every time I touched it.
I began to smile without bracing for the fall.
Open now, I walk with both scars and sunlight.
Not whole, maybe. But wholly mine.
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