Ancient in My Veins

I brewed a cup of silence
and the leaves spoke.
Not in English.
Not in wounds.
But in warmth
that curled like smoke
beneath my ribs.

Mugwort whispered
secrets of the moon.
Dandelion dared me
to drop what wasn’t mine.
Chamomile kissed
the grief I hid
in my spine.

I am not broken,
only remembering.

The herbs do not ask
what I’ve endured—
they know.
They taste the salt
in my veins
and say,
“Welcome back.”

Ginger calls my fire home.
Lavender laces the ache
with lullabies.
Lemongrass lifts
the dust off my name.

I stir the tea
and stir the soul.
This is not potion.
This is prayer.
This is not remedy.
This is return.

Every root I steep
tugs at memory.
Every blossom I breathe
wakes the ocean in me.
Every sip is a ceremony
to the body I once doubted,
to the power I buried
beneath pain.

I am not too late.
I am not too much.
I am a temple
lit with basil and bone,
a garden of marrow and myth.
I carry the Earth
in my chest like drumbeat.
I carry the sun
in my mouth like truth.

So I drink.
And I listen.
And I heal.
And I rise.

Because I am
salt.
soil.
song.
And I remember now:
I have always been my own medicine-—

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