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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.
Copyright ©
Gabrielle Munslow
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