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.
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