making my☀️own sunsine.

💚

Even Superwoman sometimes needed Superman’s soul…

I wear my sadness like a blanket rubbed threadbare,

its edges frayed from years of pulling it tighter

whenever the world grew cold.

It no longer comforts me.

But it is the warmest thing I own.

There are rooms inside my memory

where sunlight still hangs in the air—

the life that should have happened,

the ordinary miracles

that disappeared before I could reach them.

I visit them anyway.

I count the lullabies interrupted,

the mornings traded for survival,

the afternoons that dissolved

into arguments loud enough

to drown out a baby’s laughter.

No one tells you

that grief is measured in moments,

not years.

It is the smile you never saw,

the quiet you never got to keep,

the version of yourself

who should have existed

but had to become a witness instead.

And oh, this hunger.

Not for food,

not even for sleep—

but for arms.

For the impossible luxury

of collapsing into another human being

without having to explain

why your bones have become so heavy.

I want to be held

until my heartbeat remembers

it was never meant

to sound like an alarm.

The wanting burns.

It is a thirst beneath the skin,

where no river can reach,

where I drink and drink

and remain impossibly dry.

Some nights

I think even the stars

look like tiny glasses of water

just beyond my fingertips.

And then there is you.

Your presence is winter.

Not because you are absent,

but because you stand close enough

to remind me

how cold a person can become

while still being touched.

How lonely a life can feel

beside someone

who never learned

that love has a temperature.

I have spent years mistaking endurance for devotion.

Mistaking survival for home.

Still—

beneath the blanket,

beneath the frozen ground,

beneath every stolen moment

and every unanswered ache,

there is something

that refuses to die.

A woman.

A mother.

A heart that still reaches

for warmth

even after learning

how often hands can fail it.

Perhaps that reaching

is not weakness.

Perhaps it is the smallest proof

that somewhere beneath all this winter,

I still remember

what spring is supposed to feel like.