I wake in the wreck where the light still shakes, trying to find its way home. I still taste the fire you left in the dust of my bones. You said “I’m sorry” like it could stitch what you tore apart in me, But every word you spoke just opened another scar I could see. Now every lie hums beneath my skin like a burn I won’t let heal, And I won’t touch it again — I’ve learned what pain can reveal. I keep the anger folded neat, it keeps me warm but doesn’t own me. It beats beneath the sleep I lose but never controls me. I’m rebuilding slow — stone by stone, word by word, I grow. My breath is louder than your silence ever was. The ground still shakes but I stay whole; I let the faultlines sing instead of bleed. I’m not your ruin — I’m what comes next. The nights are quiet now; I don’t wait for your message to glow. I stopped measuring love by what you’d let me know. The air tastes clean, my lungs believe again. Even grief takes its rest — I’m lighter when it ends. Some mornings I almost miss the pain. It proved I was alive, not in vain. Peace doesn’t shout — it steadies hands. It hums in small things that finally stand. I’m rebuilding slow — not for show, not for you, not for the ghosts that stayed too long. I’m the sum of what survived. The silence feels like truth now, clear and strong. Every breath a promise to keep moving even when the road still shakes. No forgiveness owed. No glory sung. Just a steady breath in a heavy lung. If you see me fall again — that’s me learning how to stand. I’m rebuilding slow — fire in my teeth, earth in my hands, heart like a drum in the rain. Every fracture is a hymn I sing alone and it still feels holy. Bass slides left to right like lungs breathing back to life. I ride the sound until it carries me past you. Ash to air. Breath to song. Fall to rise — we’re rebuilt.
