I was not built for the shallow.
I was carved from undertow,
where the ocean cradles its own darkness,
and still dreams in blue.
Love —
not the pretty kind,
but the kind that wrecks you clean,
strips you to salt and marrow,
and says rise anyway.
I wore gold not on my wrists
but in my blood —
molten, unbought,
a currency of survival only the wild understand.
There, between my ribs,
the tides taught me:
peace is not passive.
It is the fiercest choice a soul can make—
to be still, even while breaking.
I sank.
I floated.
I opened my palms to the horizon
and caught pieces of myself,
shining like shipwrecked stars.
If you ask me what freedom is,
I will not say running away.
I will say becoming ocean.
I will say kissing the wreckage gold.
I will say sitting still enough to hear the love that never left you.
There,
in the hush between waves,
I am no longer waiting for the world.
I am the calm,
the storm,
the prayer,
the answered breath.
And finally—
I am my own shore–
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