gRj
I still believe—
not in the lies they wore like perfume,
but in the way my hands,
though scarred,
still cup hope like a match
in a windstorm.
Yes, I love too loud.
Yes, I trust the map
before I check for cliffs.
But this is not weakness—
it is the stubborn art
of planting gardens
in a world that prays for rain.
Let them call me reckless.
Let them say I burn too bright
for my own good.
I have known the heat of a thousand false suns
and still, my skin remembers
how to glow.
One day, a woman will stay
as true as her first laugh.
One day, the love I give
will not be a question
but an echo returned
in the same language.
Until then, I practice
the sacred act of falling
and rising—
not as a fool,
but as a tide
that knows its own worth
even when the moon lies.