I am
a collapsing moment—
the inhale before the truth lands.
The hush in the room
before someone breaks.

I am many a mickle
that made a muckle.
Small choices, tiny sparks,
scattered pieces
stitched into something
intricate.
Clever.
Quietly powerful.

I am willow-soft
and storm-shaped.
Bending
but rooted.
I weep when I need to.
Then I rise—
always differently than before.

I am crow-wise—
watchful, unblinking,
gathering what others drop:
lost things, sharp things, shiny truths.
I speak in symbols
and I speak in spirals.
I don’t walk straight lines
because the answers aren’t there.

I am octopus-minded.
I shift.
I solve.
I wrap myself around the moment
and feel it from all sides.
I live in the in-between—
between what was
and what’s becoming.

I am playful.
Don’t mistake that.
Play is holy to me.
It’s how I fight,
how I heal,
how I transmute.

I am moonlit and moody,
lit from within,
especially when the world turns dark.
Give me wind and mood lighting.
Give me thunder and space to breathe.
Give me dandelions
when no one’s watching.

I am a way finder—
not with maps,
but with language.
I follow kerning like constellations.
I trust the space
between the words
as much as the words themselves.

Thresholds are sacred.
The moment before the yes.
The breath before the no.
The choice that changes everything
but seems so small
you almost miss it.

But I don’t miss much.

I am not a victim.
I have bled.
I have bent.
But I name the storm
and I ride it.

I don’t just survive.
I reshape.
I reclaim.
I write my name in the wind
and dare it to forget me.

I am.
And that
is not an apology.