Not divine,

not sky-born, not holy.

The raw, unshaken guardians

that keep us breathing.

The voice that breaks through static.

Whispering please stay,

when your own mind

turns against you.

The fury that rises in your chest

and refuses

to let cruelty be the final word.

The tenderness that slips, trembling,

a hand into yours,

wordless, but enough.

They are made of contradictions:

grief that scalds and steels you,

love that leaves you open,

aching, unarmoured.

Memories that refuse to fade,

etching themselves into every silence.

Loneliness so vast it teaches you

to cherish presence

the moment it arrives.

Fragile, miraculous, alive.

Guardian angels are not wings.

They are thresholds:

the moment you don’t jump,

the heartbeat where you decide to stay,

the single breath

that steadies you

before the dark can close its jaws.

They don’t rescue you once.

They rescue you endlessly.

In stubborn, unnoticed fragments.

And one day, you turn,

astonished,

to find you’ve walked through fire

and come out burning.

Your own light

in your own hands.