To be born a creature constantly evolving
is a God-given grace I do not deserve

but one I savor with every fiber
of my being, to be made of layers,
to be allowed the gift of unraveling.

As if no matter how much of me this world
takes and takes and takes, whether it be
the strength from my spine or the flush
of my face when it finds yours among many
in a crowded room, no matter if everything
I hold is stolen from my hands, cupped
in prayer, no matter if I am left with nothing

I will never truly be left with nothing.

I will always have poetry.

And layers.

And you.

escapril day 30: catharsis

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