I have spent years
digging through the ashes of myself,
palms split open,
searching for bones that still remember my name.
There are pieces of me
rotting in old bedrooms,
in the mouths of people who swore they loved me,
in mirrors I covered
because I could not survive my own reflection.
Still
I gather the wreckage.
A jagged mouthful of sorrow.
A spine bent crooked from carrying ghosts.
Hands trembling with the weight
of everything they could not save.
So here I stand
stitched together with shadows,
half woman, half ruin,
learning that some things are not meant to heal.
Some things only learn
how to keep breathing
while they decay.