I feel myself
being consumed
by the universe—
a little more each day.

The sky draws light
from my wounds,
and pulls colour
from my blood—
into rainbows.

I melt,
drown,
vanish—
like ice in wine,
quietly disappearing.

My edges
start to blur,
my shape
less defined.

Though I vanished,
I made the act
of giving fuller—
Like melting ice
lifting water,
An ascent
born gently
from my dissolving.

I used to think
home had a door.
A key.
A roof that remembered my name.

But I’ve lived in places
that never made space for my silence.
Places that knew my footsteps
but not my fears.

I carry pieces of home
in chipped mugs,
in songs that smell like childhood,
in people I no longer speak to.

Sometimes, home is a voice,
cracked with laughter
in a place I had to leave.

Sometimes, it’s a moment
sunlight on tired skin,
or the way someone says
“You can rest here.”

I’ve learned
that belonging doesn’t always mean staying,
and leaving doesn’t mean forgetting.

Home isn’t always where you were born.
Sometimes,
it’s where you stopped pretending.
I don’t know if I’ve found mine yet.
But I know what it isn’t.
And that’s something.

One petal left—
But the rose doesn’t cry.
On petal left—
Yet the rose still try’s.
One petal left—
But color still radiates.
Hope is what powers,
The rose,  
No matter the fate.