The Ritual of Awakening

I.
yesterday spilled coffee on my white soul
and I wore it like a badge,
iron-pressed into the chest of my amnesia

I—
(still not sure who’s talking anymore)
was trying to convince the calendar
to forgive me

it refused.
dates are strict fathers,
numbers that don’t bend
when your ribs do

but today—
today is not yesterday's obedient child.
it’s a graffiti on your grandmother’s prayer wall.
it’s a glitch in your father’s PowerPoint.
it’s not linear,
it walks with a limp,
and it laughs in Morse code.


---

II.
I woke up and didn’t apologize for existing—
small victory
slapped between toothpaste and uncharged phone.

outside, the sky wore mismatched shoes
and I thought:
finally, the weather understands me.

I poured myself a cup of daylight
(skimmed of fear, extra courage)
and burnt my tongue on the possibility of healing.
It tasted like aloe and gunpowder.
Maybe that's what redemption always tastes like.


---

III.
You (yes, you, again)
asked me if I’m still broken.
What a boring word.
What an obedient term.
I prefer—
unfinished architecture,
unwritten symphony,
or simply
a door with bad memory.

yesterday told me I was a ruin.
today smirked and said:
ruins make great museums.
and I opened.


---

IV.
at 9:04 a.m.,
the mirror accused me of continuity.
I threw my toothbrush at it
and gave birth to seven versions of maybe.

one of them wore a red scarf and refused shame.
another recited love letters backward
and made me cry in a way that felt like breathing.

someone said,
“No matter what happened yesterday…”
and I interrupted—
scream-whispered:
“Shut up. I’m rebelling against continuity.”

but continuity just hugged me
like an old friend in denial.


---

V.
the streets were made of melted intentions.
I walked carefully,
wearing shoes of consequence.

a dog barked forgiveness at a squirrel.
a pigeon wrote my name in invisible ink.
a stranger hummed my heartbeat
as if I were a song they hadn’t learned yet.

somewhere,
a traffic light turned green
for someone not yet born.

today was giving birth
in the middle of a war zone
and no one noticed
except me
and the ghost in my coffee foam.


---

VI.
lunchtime.
the soup pretended to be silence,
but it burned like someone else's anger.

I dropped my spoon into the bowl
and watched it sink
like my last attempt at being understood.

at another table,
a child drew suns with twelve arms
and called them “Hope Machines.”
I paid for their drawing with my last doubt.


---

VII.
I kissed the mouth of 3 p.m.
and tasted static.

the wind wrote something obscene
on my forearm in Braille.

it said:
“you are a timeline refusing to stay straight.
don’t apologize.
your curvature is holy.”

I laughed and it echoed through ten yesterdays
like someone finally cleaned the attic.


---

VIII.
I forgot who I was
just long enough to meet myself.
we shook hands like enemies pretending
to be diplomats
for the sake of the children.

but no children were watching,
so I admitted to my reflection:
I am building myself out of leftover verbs.
mostly the soft ones:
linger.
breathe.
unfold.
begin.


---

IX.
someone told me
rebirths come with user manuals.
mine was written in fingerprints
on a foggy window I haven’t looked through yet.

so I read it with my skin.

Step One: inhale forgiveness
Step Two: exhale shame
Step Three: name your shadows
Step Four: give them crayons
Step Five: start the story again
but this time
begin with thunder.


---

X.
sunset arrived drunk.
it stumbled across rooftops,
shouting nonsense in shades of pink and lavender.

I sat with it.
told it my secrets.
it wept orange across the sky
and promised to return sober.


---

XI.
evening was a choir of unsent emails.
I opened them all and replied
with my favorite childhood memory:

once, I fell off my bicycle and the sky caught me
in a pause between rain and rainbow.

the inbox glowed
and deleted my sorrow like spam.


---

XII.
before sleep,
I carved my name
into the dark
with a flashlight and a broken compass.

north pointed inward.
time unraveled like loose thread from God’s sleeve.

and as I dissolved into dream’s cradle,
a voice I couldn’t locate whispered:

“You survived. Again. That’s enough revolution for today.”


---

XIII.
Tomorrow knocks.
I answer.
We nod,
like old co-conspirators.

Nothing is promised.
Everything is possible.

Let the world begin again—
on the tip of my ink-stained finger.

Let me write the first word.

Let it be:

Yes.