The Shimmer Beneath

Rattled into action, I’m no damsel in a tower. I’m Sleeping Beauty, grown— not rescued, just rested. Wrapped in gratitude, a quiet kiss waiting. So I crush every mistake, every “no,” every moment I felt less than— they were the broth that brined my spine, seasoned my soul. I do not recount sorrows steeped in regret. I do not carve my psyche with clever metaphors. I do not dance through the dust of broken dreams. I bask in the brilliance buried beneath defeat. Not lost. Only redemption. I sip from the same scorched cup— the bitterness now dulled, the burn made warm. I steep old wounds in truth, brew them into wisdom. Every ache a root pushing me into new life. Every silence a seed I didn’t know I’d planted. The knowing always strikes first— a hush pierced by sirens, pulse breaking in the bones, a hunger without a name, a reaching for something that does not yet exist. Even the thorns I cursed— named after lovers I mistook for home— became compass needles, pointing me back to myself. I do not recount sorrows steeped in regret. I do not carve my psyche with metaphors. I do not waltz through wreckage. I bask— in the hush after heartbreak, in the shimmer beneath scars, in the beauty that bloomed when everything broke. Not lost. Not ruined. Only— becoming. And still, I bask.