Burn Marks Glow

I didn’t land here gracefully.

I crawled,

half-broken and dirt-streaked,

with bloodied palms

and breath I had to bite to keep.

There were days I mistook silence for peace,

and others where even the mirror

looked away.

But I kept going..

not because I knew how,

but because something in me

refused to die quiet.

I’ve been emptied by hands

that took without trembling,

left hollow by echoes

that wore my name but never stayed.

I've buried the softest parts of me

in places that didn’t deserve gardens,

and still...

they bloomed

out of spite,

out of memory,

out of rage and reverence.

So no,

this strength isn’t polished.

It’s not stitched in silk.

It’s rough-edged and smoke-laced,

carved from nights I nearly didn’t make it out of.

I’ve held joy

with the same hands I used

to claw my way up from grief.

And maybe that’s why it’s real

not light,

but fire-warmed bone,

a steady hum in the marrow

that says:

You survived this too.

You belong here now.

I no longer apologize

for what it took to stand.

For the burn marks on my tongue

from words I swallowed.

For the way I carry beauty

like a blade,

both tool and weapon,

both mercy and warning.

I have learned

that healing is not always

a soft thing.

Sometimes it’s refusal.

Sometimes it’s the growl

of something ancient in your chest

that says:

Not again.

Not like that.

Where my feet now stand

isn’t holy by birthright

it became sacred

through ruin and rebuild.

Through every exit

that taught me who I’m not.

Through every still morning

that dared me to stay.

This..

this dirt beneath me,

this breath in my chest,

this fire that no longer asks permission to glow..

this is mine.

And I am not waiting

for anyone to witness it

to make it real.