Through the Cracks

The more I hear,
the more I crave the quiet —
to press my hands against my ears,
pretend the world is softer than it is.
But whispers travel.
And sickness always seeps
through the cracks.

It is one thing to weather storms alone;
another to watch the lightning
aim for your child.
I want to gather them close,
slip into the dark woods,
vanish into safety.
Yet a scream waits in my throat —
too wild to release,
too heavy to swallow.

I know what must be done,
though the steps have faded
like old footprints in rain.
How do you tear down the same wall
when your hands still ache
from the last time?
Still, it stands.
And it must fall.

Forgiveness blooms easily
for wanderers and stumblers,
for those who wound without knowing.
But the roots —
those meant to shelter,
yet dripping with poison —
how do you pardon the tree
that bore only bitter fruit?

They say: hurt people hurt people.
But not always.
Some grow gardens from their wounds.
They read shadows,
trace the air,
catch what others miss.
Both unseen and watchful,
both steel and tenderness,
both everywhere and nowhere.

But this time,
the strike isn’t for me.
Not for us.
It reaches further —
toward the ones we swore
would never taste
the same bitterness we did.

And that
I will not allow.

Sk-

Woven in the Fabric

If you’ve ever felt the weight of old wounds seeping through the cracks, you’re not alone. May this piece remind you that cycles can be broken, and light will find its way in.

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