What I Couldn’t See

It happened

just as the world tilted forward—

not with thunder,

but the hush before rain.

I built glass castles

in the shadow of my own name—

forgot I was made of stars,

not the silence between them.

I mistook survival for sin.

Wore shame like a ribbon

braided into my breath.

Let mirrors lie

as I vanished

into the velvet folds of doubt.

Years slipped—

sweet breath held underwater,

truth wrapped in wax paper,

a prayer never spoken aloud.

I whispered sorry

to the girl

with dusk in her curls,

to the voice that trembled

before it learned to sing.

But even ash remembers light.

The moss still loved me

when I could not love myself.

The stones kept my stories

when I tried to forget them.

The stars never blamed me

for falling.

There were always hands

just outside the frame—

not saving,

but steadying.

And the mirror?

It never stopped waiting.

It knew.

It saw the sky in me

long before I remembered

how to rise.