I Will Not Let the Light Leave Me

When the day presses
its weight on my shoulders,
and I feel like snapping—
I don’t.

Instead, I hum lullabies to the heat,
let it wrap around me
like my daughter’s sleepy arms.

Even the ache,
even the silence—
I will not curse it.

I will be the water,
the shade,
the soft place to land.

Even for you.
Even for what hurt me.
Even still,
I will offer the light back.

Because something inside me remembers:
how the sun still rose
after the funeral,
how the grass didn’t stop growing
just because I did.

I remember the stillness
of a moment before the tears—
the quiet that split me
wide enough to let light in.

I remember the prayer
that didn’t change anything
except my breath.

I remember learning
that gentleness is a decision,
not a weakness—
a kind of rebellion
in a world that sharpens everything
into survival.

And so, I choose again—
to kneel before the day,
to cup it in open hands,
to let it melt in my palms
like ice catching sunlight.

Not because I’m unbroken,
but because I finally know
where to place the brokenness—
somewhere soft.
Somewhere warm.

I will not let the light leave me.

Not even now.
Not even when it flickers.