Kissing Dirt

Blood has a way of teaching gravity.

I know this
because I have kissed the dirt
so many times
it knows my name.

Every bruise is a fingerprint
left by a battle
I never asked to fight.

People speak of resilience
like it is a beautiful thing—
a banner raised,
a fist in the air,
a triumphant return.

But they never talk about this part.

The part where the ground feels kinder
than standing.

The part where your ribs ache
from carrying hope
up the same hill
for the hundredth time.

The part where you stare at the sky
through swollen eyes
and think,

“No.
Not today.”

Not because you’ve surrendered.

Not because you’ve lost.

But because there is only so much
a body can bleed,
only so many times
a heart can be broken open
before it asks
for a moment of stillness.

So I lie here.

Bloody.
Bruised.
Breathing.

If the world mistakes my rest
for defeat,
let it.

The earth can hold me awhile.

I have carried enough.

Today,
I do not rise.

Today,
I simply survive.

Stay Weird. Love You. Mean It.

Photo by Liam Briese on Unsplash