I am here
for the unmapped places,
where silence has teeth
and memory grows moss
on the bones of a forgotten god.

I am here
not as proof,
but as pulse;
a tremble 
in the sky’s cerulean hush,
a name the wind 
can’t quite pronounce.

I am here
for the deliberate bloom
of becoming,
for the fabric torn 
and rethreaded
by hands that never stopped trembling.

I am here
like the ring on her finger;
subtle, 
stubborn,
half-vanished in light,
yet always circling 
back to the vow.

I am here
for the quiet revolution;
for the wildflowers 
that break through concrete,
for women who were told
they were too much
and became everything anyway.

I am here
in the hollows of doubt,
where the sky opens like a wound
and the ache becomes
its own kind of altar.

I am here.
Not to be seen,
but to see.
And to stand
tender, 
unhidden;
in the storm of it all.