There lives a dragon beneath my skin,
not one of fire,
but of silver threads
that unravel whenever the wind whispers too loudly.
My bones are wandering stars,
never quite content
to remain where the heavens first placed them.
They drift,
they ache,
they sing songs only the moon understands.
The forest within me is enchanted,
but magic is a curious thing.
The vines that hold the trees together
were woven from stardust instead of rope,
beautiful enough to make the fairies sigh,
fragile enough to snap beneath the weight of a butterfly.
Every morning,
I bargain with ancient spells
just to rise from my bed.
The floor greets me like a mountain,
the staircase like a kingdom to conquer,
and still—
I lace courage around my shoulders
like a cloak stitched from constellations.
Pain follows me,
not as a monster,
but as a shadow wolf.
It knows my name.
It walks beside me
through every season,
never asking permission,
never growing tired.
Yet flowers bloom anyway.
Wildflowers push through the cracks
of weary earth.
The sun still kisses my face.
The stars still tell me
that broken things
can become galaxies.
Perhaps I was never meant
to be forged from iron.
Perhaps I was always meant
to be woven from spider silk,
moonlight,
and wishes.
Soft does not mean weak.
Fragile does not mean defeated.
I am a creature of impossible magic,
held together by hope,
stubbornness,
and the quiet promise
that even on the days
my body feels like a crumbling castle,
my spirit
still remembers
how to fly.
