Being resurrected feels—
over the top.
Not a soft bloom from cocoon to wing,
but a clash—good and bad
in a lover’s war dance,
polar opposites snapping in place.

It doesn’t ease you,
it jolts.
Eyes torn open
to galaxies stitched in silence,
to a world behind this world,
or maybe beneath,
or maybe so small
it hums in your atoms.

You glimpse what most can’t—
a wisdom not taught
but poured,
an empathy not for them,
but born within—
a private ache,
a knowing.

It carries weight, yes,
but mostly,
liberation.

That this bubble—
this self-made sky—
is just big enough
to hold your world alone.

Just you.
And that is enough.