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I used to carry a pocket full of explanations,

loose screws from a machine

everyone insisted I was assembled wrong.

I would spill them onto tables —

small shining pieces —

hoping someone would finally see

the shape I was trying to hold together.

Instead, they counted parts.

They never saw the engine.

There was a time

I bent my life into parentheses,

always adding context,

always softening the impact

of being real.

I mistook transparency for permission.

Mistook exhaustion for honesty.

My voice grew thin

from sanding itself down

to fit inside other people’s comfort.

Now I move differently.

Like a river that stopped asking

the banks where it is allowed to go.

I leave some questions unanswered —

not out of secrecy,

but because not every doorway

deserves my shadow crossing it.

I no longer drag my past behind me

like proof of purchase.

It lives where it belongs —

inside the structure,

holding the roof up

without needing to be seen.

People still try to label the shape of me.

They press names against my skin

like price tags that won’t stick.

I let them fall.

I am not a thesis to defend.

Not a warning label.

Not a before-and-after story.

I am weathered wood —

still standing,

no longer explaining the storm.

If someone asks who I am now,

I will not unfold diagrams.

I will not translate the language of my scars.

I will simply exist —

whole as an unfinished sky,

quiet as a house that finally feels lived in,

certain as breath that no longer checks

whether it is welcome.