Literature
Finding the Thread
[DEVIATION]
I learned to bury longing deep,
where no clean morning ever reached,
beneath the names that bruised my mouth,
beneath the body I was preached.
Shame did not knock. It lived inside,
a tenant in the bedroom wall,
and every mirror kept a face
I could not bear to call at all.
There were dresses dark as weather,
silk like rain on funeral stone,
and every color I reached toward
made me more visible, more alone.
I walked the edge of who I was,
a cliff disguised as ordinary floor,
with every step a hollow prayer,
with every breath a locked door.
Transition was no shining road,
no hymn, no sudden break of dawn,
but crawling through the ruined house
of everything I had put on.
Some nights I still lose track of me,
still haunt the years I could not name,
and tenderness, if it appears,
arrives with dirt beneath its flame.
So if I wander, let me wander
through the ash I used to own;
let every thread I once concealed
be stitched from shadow into bone.