There's a storm that doesn't thunder, doesn't crack the sky in two, it lives behind the ribs, whispers things that aren't true.
It says pain is a language, that hurt means control, but l've learned storms can lie when they speak to the soul.
Some days my hands shake with wanting, some days my breath feels thin, but every time I choose to pause is a quiet, stubborn win.
I trace my strength in small moments— a breath, a song, a name, proof that I am more than a flicker of shame.
I am not broken glass, I am not what I fear.
I am someone still standing, and that means I'm still here.
