Quiet Storm
Morning seeps in,
thin light slicing through the weight I carry.
Yesterday lingers,
clinging like damp clothes against my skin,
its shadow tightening around my ribs.
The world scrapes against my edges,
each breath a quiet rebellion.
I wear my flaws like battle scars,
a story etched in lines too jagged to smooth.
This heaviness is coarse, unforgiving,
but grit lives in the fractures.
Life sprouts where the ground splits,
wild and unrelenting.
Even broken soil can grow roots.
Even a storm can taste like clean air.
I stand here, unpolished, whole,
a light fierce enough to burn through anything.
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