We sit, thinking of life’s disparities,
while I find meaning in the smallest things—
the wall, the patterns, the colors
that fade, not quite the same,
morning light bleeding through their edges.
I see it. I touch it. I feel it.
The mat beneath me, warm from the shower,
my heart opening, embracing itself.
On a bad day, it’s my enemy.
On a good day, it is my foundation, my quiet destiny.
It’s never the mat—it’s me.
I pour meaning into it. I give it life.
I ask: which thoughts drain me?
Which thoughts lift me?
I ruminate.
I wander.
I feel you here, when you are not.
Pain swells, uncontrolled,
but this is my space—my secret home.
I can open the door. I can close it.
I press through my feelings
because logic must be bold
when war rages in the chest.
Once, I roamed like a lion;
now, I see my sensitivity is my strength.
Vulnerability—heart larger than my chest—
how do my bones hold me?
If you are not a rock,
but a stick that snaps at the wind,
how could I lean on you?
Your presence suffocates,
your weight pressing into my bones.
I call your name—hoping, waiting.
But how can I ask for rescue
from someone who cannot save themselves?
I choose clarity.
I choose my destiny.
Closure is silence.
Silence is enough.
If my heart was valued,
then ghost me.
I see the ghost of “we”
and I take back my power.
I reflect. I learn. I rise.
Life becomes an experiment.
Optimism becomes my game.
Honesty, my policy, my tallest tree,
grown break by break, step by step.
The power is in my hands.
I decorate my life with or without you.
Whatever I seek, I give myself.
I no longer need a savior—
I have been saving me all along.
So here I am, letting you go,
washing away the flaws I absorbed,
drying my hands, turning the page.
Even when my heart aches beyond reason,
I save myself.
No matter what you send me.