After The Storm

The storm didn’t leave politely.

It ripped the screen door loose,

knocked over my favorite plant,

and stole the power for hours.

﹁﹂

I sat on the floor with a flashlight

like a kid telling herself

Ghost stories are just stories.

My phone buzzed once, then died.

Kind of symbolic, honestly.

﹁﹂

In the morning, everything looked wrong

in a quieter way:

branches scattered like snapped bones,

puddles holding broken clouds,

My porch chair on its side

like it gave up.

﹁﹂

I walked outside barefoot anyway,

stepping over wet leaves,

finding my own footprints

pressed into mud

As proof I was still here.

﹁﹂

The neighbor waved,

and I waved back,

and it felt like a tiny rescue

with no sirens.

﹁﹂

I picked up what I could.

I threw out what I couldn’t.

I kept one cracked flowerpot

because I’m sentimental

or stupid

or healing—same thing some days.

﹁﹂

Peace isn’t a clean room.

It’s this mess,

and me breathing through it,

calling it progress

even when it doesn’t look pretty yet.