I wasn’t born with ease in my bones—
I carved it, stitch by stubborn stitch.
Not gifted grace, but gathered scraps
from ache, from silence, from the ditch.
I built my joy from mismatched threads,
a patchwork of almosts and no-shows.
Each ritual, a quiet rebellion—
each boundary, a bloom that grows.
My comfort isn’t store-bought soft,
it’s forged in fire, cooled in wit.
I sanded down the jagged e...