I was not born a diamond,
not even quartz
just a rough beginning,
edges arguing with the world,
feet learning the grammar of falling.
Poverty
that playful thief
stole my shoes
but never touched my stride.
Shame, though…
shame is the finer blade.
It hides beneath the tongue,
turning truth into thorns.
“Did you really say that?” it whispers,
while the heart slips away
to a distant shore.
But I have learned
quietly, like dawn learns the sky
that a sincere laugh
through threadbare socks
outshines vaults of guarded gold.
What matters is not the noise we make,
but the wake we leave behind:
may it be ripples of ease,
not storms of tightening chests
and turning faces.
There is no shame in an empty hand,
no shame in the body we were given.
These are not sins
only doorways.
Shame lives elsewhere:
in words that cut and call themselves truth,
in hearts that ration mercy,
in gestures that dim the light of others.
We are not measured
by what escaped us
nor by the form we arrived in
but by what we release into the world:
small mercies,
quiet kindness,
seeds that bloom in unseen gardens.
A human being is not weighed by lack,
but by trace
the softness they leave in a room,
or the bruise
that lingers after they are gone.
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 11:09 PM UTC
I was not born a diamond,
not even quartz
just a rough beginning,
edges arguing with the world,
feet learning the grammar of falling.
Poverty
that playful thief
stole my shoes
but never touched my stride.
Shame, though…
shame is the finer blade.
It hides beneath the tongue,
turning truth into thorns.
“Did you really say that?” it whispers,
while the heart slips away
to a distant shore.
But I have learned
quietly, like dawn learns the sky
that a sincere laugh
through threadbare socks
outshines vaults of guarded gold.
What matters is not the noise we make,
but the wake we leave behind:
may it be ripples of ease,
not storms of tightening chests
and turning faces.
There is no shame in an empty hand,
no shame in the body we were given.
These are not sins
only doorways.
Shame lives elsewhere:
in words that cut and call themselves truth,
in hearts that ration mercy,
in gestures that dim the light of others.
We are not measured
by what escaped us
nor by the form we arrived in
but by what we release into the world:
small mercies,
quiet kindness,
seeds that bloom in unseen gardens.
A human being is not weighed by lack,
but by trace
the softness they leave in a room,
or the bruise
that lingers after they are gone.
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