Echos of Insight

I surface inside myself,
again and again,
seizing the hand
that tried to drag me under.

The gray’s not the grave,
it’s the place I can bend,
while the storm writes its letter
and forgets my name.

All the maps I feared
were shadows carved
beneath my skin.

Stomach like a stone
in a sudden tide.
Old voices circling,
telling me to hide—

You’re not enough,
they start to bite,
but I killed the switch
before they could find the light.

Rinsed the ghost
from my shoulders,
slipped into something soft,
let the quiet hold me,
didn’t fight it off.

Didn’t flip the switch,
didn’t beg the flame.
Just let the fire burn
without my name.

Every fear I’ve carried
has been a compass in disguise,
pointing to the places
I was left behind.

The lines I thought were safety
were the edges of a cage,
and every locked door
was just another stage.

The blueprint’s in my shadow,
the guide’s in my ache.
If I trace it slow enough,
I can watch it break.

You don’t have to drown
just because the water’s deep.
You don’t have to kneel
for every ghost you keep.

The veil’s not a wall—
it’s a curtain,
thin as breath.
Pull it back,
and you’ll see what’s left:

a map of your ruin,
a map of your gold,
the stories you were given,
the ones you were told to hold—

all of it inked
in a language you know,
but only if you dare
to read it slow.

I steady inside myself,
again and again,
the hand still reaching,
but its hold slips.

The gray’s not the grave,
it’s the place I can bend,
while the storm writes its letter
and forgets my name.

And the maps I feared
are the shadows
I now walk within.