I’ve died so many quiet deaths—
shedding selves that were never wrong,
just no longer true.

Each one carried me
as far as it could
before laying itself down
so I could rise.

Now that I’ve found healing,
I see it was always there—
a quiet knowing,
guiding me forward
through the dark.

But now I wonder—
was it the knowing that shaped the path,
or the path that shaped the knowing?
Did I become who I was meant to be,
or did I simply arrive
where I’d always been?

When spirit called, I chose the flame,
To walk the earth and bear a name.
But did I see the depths ahead—
The nights so dark, the tears I’d shed?

To feel the ache that breaks apart
The boundless edges of the heart.
To lose myself, to fall, to grieve—
And still, in silence, not to leave.

Like stars that fall yet do not die,
Like wings that form before they fly,
I sank into the chrysalis—
A holy womb of pain and bliss.

Yes — I knew. I heard the song.
That pulled my soul where I belong.
To feel what angels only dream:
The raw divine in each extreme.