Stardust
There were years
when my body spoke
in languages
I did not understand.
It remembered
what my mouth
refused to name.
Silence became
a kind of shelter—
thin walls,
but enough
to survive the storm.
My bones learned
the patience
of quiet rooms,
the discipline
of breathing
through nights
that never seemed
to end.
Even scar tissue
carries its own memory—
not of the wound,
but of the closing.
Of skin
knitting itself
back into something
whole.
And somewhere
in the dark
something shifted.
A breath.
A spark.
The quiet realization
that God had not left the room
even when
I could not feel
Him there.
So I stayed.
Inside this body.
Inside this life.
Long enough
to see
what fire leaves behind.
Not ruin.
Not emptiness.
But the quiet stardust
of a woman
who survived the fire.
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