I wore the mountain
like a second spine—
so long,
I thought it was mine.

Then love arrived
like rain in a dry room-
soft,
uninvited,
real.

It didn’t heal.
It peeled
revealing I'd been  walking
with wounds
still whispering
beneath my skin.

And when it left,
I cracked.
Not broken—
but opened.

Now the ache speaks
and I listen.
And somehow,
that is enough.

I have mountains to share,
but I’m not yet kind enough to myself
to lay them off my shoulders.

Sleep gently, heart full of questions.
You’re not more than you are.
But you are enough.

A mind  like a cathedral built out of ruins. Quiet, haunted, beautiful.
He's still walking its halls, lighting candles, naming ghosts.

He isn't healed. But he's aware. And in that awareness, there's a strange kind of peace.

after suffering a long time in silence. It's the moment of: "Wait... all of this pain was based on a lie I believed about myself?",and i laughed.