There are days I try to summon peace — to call away
the late-night ghosts still pacing the edge of sleep.
As I wear the last tears like glass in my dry eyes,
fragile, but refusing to fall.

As I hold faith in the sunrise — though I don’t know
if this night will stretch longer than I can bear, or if
tomorrow will rise with light enough to meet me again.

And if lips are a quiet prize — not just for kissing,
but for kindness — then may they still speak, softly,
with the warmth of a life beginning again.

I am not always okay-
but I'm always trying.

Some days,
the weight is quiet.
Other days,
it screams through my bones
and I still show up.

I've learned to be the calm
when nothing else is.
To hold my own hand
when no one else reaches for it.

I do not need to be loud
to be strong.
I do not need to be seen
to be real.

And if I am only
a soft kind of brave-
that's still brave enough.