A new world hums beneath my skin,
soft as dawn before the birds begin.
The old me lingers like smoke in the air,
a ghost of heavy nights I used to wear.
But somewhere between the breaking and bloom,
flowers pushed through the cracks in the ruin.
I learned endings are not graves at all—
sometimes they are doors waiting to be called open.
Now I walk into mornings I’ve never seen,
where the sky feels wider, washed clean.
The stars no longer look so far away;
they whisper, you survived another day.
This new world is not perfect—
it still rains, still aches, still bends.
But the light reaches me differently here,
like life itself wants to make amends.
I am learning how to begin again:
to touch joy without fearing loss,
to plant gardens in abandoned places,
to wear my scars like silver gloss.
And maybe rebirth is not becoming someone new,
but finally meeting the self
that was buried beneath survival.
So here I stand—
heart open like a window after winter,
watching the horizon unfold
into a world that does not know my past,
only my willingness
to keep walking toward the sun
