You are not the worst thing
that's ever happened to you.

You are the breath
after the breaking,
the hands that still reach
when no one claps.

Look at you-
still here.
That's art.

The world doesn't wait
for your heart to heal.

It spins,
loud and unfair,
while you try to remember
how to stand.

But some mornings,
you laugh anyway.
That's power.

They said it gets better-
they never said when.

So you stitched light
into the edges of your pain
and called it surviving.

But some nights,
you fell joy
with no warning.

And that's enough.

Love didn't save you.
But you loved anyway.

That's the kind of brave
they don't put into stories.

You lost things
that had names.

Dreams,
people,
parts of yourself
you'll never fully get back.

But you still open your chest
to the wind.
You still say yes.

And that-
that is holy.