This is me.
Yes, me.
carved again from the ashes
of my own undoing.
I have walked through fire
that spoke in the language of loss,
and though it burned
the tenderness from my chest,
my heart still beats,
ragged, but alive,
like a drum calling the dawn.
I have been to hell and back,
and I have found
that even there,
the soul remembers
how to bloom.
Now the mirror shows a stranger
I recognize.
The same eyes,
but deeper.
The same hands,
but steadier.
The weight is gone,
but not just from my body;
I have shed the heaviness
of being less than whole.
I move forward,
unhurried,
with the patience of the sea
and the certainty of the moon,
heart ripped,
yet still singing,
no stopping me now.