#liminalalchemy

into moments

as if the cup will last forever.

But clay breaks,

hands slip,

and still—

wasn’t it worth it,

the sip of warmth

before it cooled?

not by ghosts

but by versions of myself

who thought things would be different.

for the grief that doesn’t announce itself

the friendships that fade

the futures you outgrow

the versions of yourself

that quietly step aside

it doesn’t look like crying

it looks like pausing

and realizing

you are alone in a new way.

does not make the pain holy

it just means

you survived long enough

to rearrange the wreckage

i am not enlightened

i am experienced

there is a difference

and it still hurts

never arriving

stuck between

who i was allowed to be

and who i am trying to save

this is not a transformation

it is an excavation

i am digging myself up

by hand.

but don’t confuse that with peace,

I’m just learning not to bleed

for people who leave.

Used to beg to be seen,

now I move unseen,

protecting my peace

like it’s part of my routine.

by the people we used to be,

by the words we almost said,

by the lives we’ll never live.

But maybe that’s the art of it:

to hold the ache like a flower,

to bleed and still call it love,

to keep breaking

and still write “beautiful” in the margins.

is a prayer i don’t know how to pray.

ink is just faith

spilled sideways.