Nov 30, 2017
It is I.
My heart feels as if it encapsulates the sun.
Radiance in my every step—a halo of solar flares braiding through my hair.
Fire leaving my bouncing heels.
A stem of golden light weaves through my veins, and I grow strong—the scars on my wrist burn bright in triumph.
I am blossoming.
I am blossoming.
Blooming into my own self—happiness is gilded into my ribcage.
So when you said: “what happened with him to make you so happy?” My leaves wilted.
Ever so slightly.
For,
It is not him.
It is not him.
It is I.
