My Mind, My Home

My mind is my home—

where I am bare, alone,

yet never alone.

Scattered pieces,

unwritten lines,

broken fragments

of the day’s designs.

The mirror reflects

the day’s long roam—

dark circles, fatigue,

I quietly own.

In the calm silence,

I sit still, alone.

I rest, I listen

to my breath—

again, I am home.

Anatomy of Becoming

Wheels to her heel,

she moves—

swift, in 360 degrees.

She asks hard questions,

finds simple answers,

looks for possibilities

in every dimension.

Criticise her—

she will ask you:

what’s your commitment

behind the complaint?

Hurt her—

she will name the pain,

then sit with it quietly,

asking within:

what’s the trigger?

She has tasted the poisons—

felt their pull,

was circled by them.

And still, she returns—

to notice, to name, to let go.

She admits when she falters, fails,

chooses to fall forward,

and learns from it all.