The day i sent these five books in, Five years of pain, Suddenly ceased. I was in a bubble, An air pocket, At the bottom of the ocean, Creating my own space, Demanding that the depths of my existence, Let me breathe, And so I did, Breathe.
There i was, A sliver of silver, wiped clean of its tarnish, Still scratched, But exposed, in a new way.
In these six months, The fire still burned, Frost moved in, Rain cleared the slate, The sun dried the stone, And in the cracks, Blooms and fields were born.
Growth was a journey, To take my pieces, Melt them down, And cast them in a new shape.
Now I see, The cycle holds true, With much less severity.
I chose life.
And as I approach the anniversary, Of trauma, I don’t feel dread, I feel— Complete.
Or at least completely uncertain, Of what lies ahead of me.