“Some Mornings”

Some mornings,

I wake up a stranger to my own skin.

Memories feel borrowed.

Smiles feel stitched in.

The mirror doesn’t lie—

but it doesn’t always tell the truth either.

There are days I move like mist,

barely formed, barely here.

I walk through the hours

like a house with shifting halls.

Some doors open gently.

Some slam shut without cause.

It’s a war I fight in silence,

a storm no one sees.

Each breath, a truce.

Each heartbeat, a plea.

And yet—

somehow—

I rise.

Even when the sky feels too heavy to wear,

even when I don’t know who I am under my own name,

I rise.

Not every day is triumphant.

Some are just survived.

But even survival—

is sacred.

Because each sunrise

is a question I choose to answer.

Each moment

is a thread I refuse to let unravel.

And if I’m many things,

then let them all be brave.

If I’m fractured,

then let the light pour through the cracks.

There’s no map for this mind,

but still—I walk.

No compass,

but still—I hope.

Because somewhere beyond the shadows

is a day that will not demand I fight.

A day that meets me softly,

and says,

You made it. You’re whole. You’re home.

Fragments in the fog

There are pieces of me scattered,

like leaves in a storm,

Each one whispering stories

in a voice not quite warm.

I wake in a life

that feels borrowed, not mine,

Wearing faces like costumes,

crossing over each line.

I’ve been mother and stranger,

the fighter and child,

Been silent and screaming,

been tender and wild.

Time slips like water

through fingers too numb,

Trying to recall

where the bruises came from.

But still—I endure.

Though the mirror may lie,

Though my soul bears the weight

of unanswered "why?"

I am learning to gather

the shards of my name,

To thread every version

with hope through the pain.

I speak to the shadows—

they don't rule me now.

I’m planting my roots

though I never learned how.

The past has its claws,

but I’m dulling their grip.

Hope is the lantern

I cling to, white-knipped.

Because maybe—just maybe—

the sun's on its way,

To rise through the wreckage

and bring me a day

Where I’m whole in my heart,

though still healing inside,

Where I live without hiding,

no more needing to hide.

So I write and I weep,

I scream and I pray,

But I will not give in—

I’m creating my day.