I plant a garden with trembling hands—
then salt the soil at dawn.
I lace the sky with paper birds
then chase them off with storm songs.

I cradle peace like porcelain,
but breathe too hard,
and shatter it.

The mirror forgives me
until I touch it.
Then it cracks—
right where my face lives.

I keep building bridges
out of wax and wishbones,
then light them from both ends
just to see
if anyone notices
me
burn.

Some nights,
I set fire to every chance I prayed for,
just to prove
I don’t deserve warmth.

And still—
I water the ashes,
hope something bruised
might bloom again.