What Remains, I Love
I learned to whisper to myself
when the world crumbled,
when silence stretched its wings,
wrapping me in a tender nothing
that felt too much like being forgotten.
I once feared the cracks,
those jagged, sharp breaths
that split me open like fault lines
shaking beneath unsteady hands.
I thought they would swallow me whole,
those wounds that bled into the earth like rain,
vanishing into soil too tired to bloom.
But there is grace in brokenness,
a quiet truth stitched into the seams of sorrow.
Each splinter of me trembling in the dark
was a vessel for light, unseen but waiting,
like stars aching to pierce the night.
I was the storm, the flood,
the wreckage left in their wake.
And then, the softening hush after the sky breaks apart.
The silence that is not emptiness,
but rest.
I lay down in the quiet,
where hope stitches its fragile thread,
where forgiveness is not a weight
but a breath catching in my chest,
an unfamiliar lullaby
that once felt too soft to hold.
The road was long, strewn with stones
that carved their names into my skin.
I mistook my scars for weakness,
forgot that healing is not the absence of pain,
but the gentle art of carrying it differently.
And so I learned,
to love what remained,
to cradle the broken and call it home.
I have always been worthy.
I just needed to remember,
how to listen to the pulse of my own name,
how to bend without breaking.
Now, I rest in the quiet that has grown within me,
a tenderness blooming slow,
like the first light of dawn
stretching over the horizon.
And in this stillness,
I am enough.
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