I used to be
somewhere
between the myth I whispered
and the mirror I avoided.

But I’ve been gone a while.
Not lost... just...
spread thin,
like honey on the wrong kind of bread,
too busy feeding everyone else
to taste myself.

And then...
stillness.
The kind that doesn’t ask permission.
The kind that shows up like a stormcloud
and says, sit.

I didn’t want to.
I wanted to build, to burn, to bloom
but the bloom was brittle,
and the fire was faking it,
and my bones were too tired
to be the scaffolding
for someone else’s temple.

So I sat.
And silence made a sound.
And I heard it.

It was me.

Not the me they taught me to be,
not the mask that got applause,
not the brand, not the brave face,
but the me who sings when no one listens,
whispers spells that no one hears,
argues with made up goddesses,
and plants ideas like landmines.

The me who left breadcrumbs made of
dream fragments
and rebellious footnotes
and half-finished essays.
The me who talks to spirits
but calls them roommates.

I found myself
not in triumph,
not in healing,
but in the holy mess
of remembering.

And now,
I am returning.
Not shiny.