The Day I Died

The Day I Died

The day I cried for you,

was the day I buried me.

Not the woman I am—

but the one I used to be.

She was soft and loyal,

but she begged to be seen.

She believed that love

meant shrinking to fit a dream.

She held on while breaking,

kissed wounds that didn’t heal.

She made a home in hunger,

called absence something real.

But she is gone now,

wrapped in silk and sky.

Not in shame, not in blame—

just a soft and sacred goodbye.

And what rose from the ashes

wasn’t revenge or pain—

It was silence, wholeness,

and sunlight in the rain.

I do not miss you.

Not because I don’t feel,

but because what I’ve become

is too full to kneel.