MY VOICE

 You are not a wilted thing, though you feel like falling petals— soft, bruised, tired of the wind. You are not broken glass, just a soul that held too much light for hands that didn’t know how to hold it. You are not too much. You are not too little. You are exactly as much as love was meant to be. And no, this ache won’t vanish overnight, but neither will your quiet strength. Some mornings, you’ll rise on trembling legs, heart sore, eyes swollen— but still you’ll rise. You will learn to breathe in spaces where his voice used to echo. You will find beauty in silence, and comfort in your own touch. This is not the end of love— just the beginning of loving yourself the way you always deserved. So rest, dear one. Cry if you need to. But remember: You are still here. And you will not disappear. Not now. Not ever.