I am not my tragedy.
My trauma is not a mirror.
I am more than the scars
Vandalized on my skin.
I am not a history book;
Tracing back my past,
Leaving remnants of my present.
These pieces are not a reflection
Of who I am or who I was.
There is a scream choking my throat;
Strangling my bottled thoughts.
And I will finally allow its escape,
Leaving space for air and calm
To enter the pathway of my lungs.
In places of emptiness,
You will find bones and flowers;
Stems with tiny leaves hugging my rib cage,
Petals blooming on the sides of my neck,
And vines covering the cracks.
There is beauty and I welcome it back.
This was and will always be
A sanctuary, a temple,
And I am the God it was built for;
I refuse to become ruins.
Dear Juliet 