Gratitude
I thank the ash for its silence
after the fire gutted my life.
Thank the scars, the road maps
etched by nights I shouldn't have lived through.
Thank the hunger
that chewed my ribs like prayer beads,
made me mean, made me move.
Thank the fucked up years,
drunk and high with ruin,
that taught me how to scrape marrow from my bones.
Thank the strangers who didn’t flinch
when I spoke like a storm.
Thank the lovers who left
so I could learn solitude’s sharp mercy.
I thank the streets,
slick with regret,
where I traded sleep for clarity
and woke up feral but breathing.
Thank the sky,
that pitiless blue witness,
for staying silent through all my madness.
Gratitude isn’t pretty.
It’s a fist, unclenched.
It’s the laugh that follows
when you realize the fall
was worth it.
Because I’m still here.
And that’s enough thanks for today.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
