Alchemy

There was a time

hurt sat in my chest

like a locked room

no windows,

no air.

It spoke in the language of almost—

almost loved,

almost chosen,

almost enough.

I carried it quietly.

Folded it into my pockets.

Let it bruise me from the inside.

But hurt is restless.

It does not like to stay small.

It became hunger.

Not for revenge—

for proof.

Proof I could rise

without becoming cruel.

Proof I could build

without breaking others

the way I was broken.

So I worked.

With trembling hands.

With nights that tasted like salt.

With mornings where the mirror

felt like a witness.

Every tear

a sharpening stone.

Every scar

a blueprint

And success came softly—

not as applause,

but as steadiness.

Bills paid.

Goals met.

Breath no longer shaking

when my name was spoken.

But here is the miracle:

I did not harden.

Somewhere in the climb

I learned to trust again.

Trust that love

is not a trap.

Trust that strength

does not require silence.

Trust that I can open my hands

without losing myself.

Hurt turned into movement.

Movement turned into growth.

Growth turned into belief.

And love—

real love—

did not erase the pain.

It honored it.

It said:

You survived.

You built.

You stayed soft.

Now look at you—

not unbreakable,

but powerful

because you were broken

and chose to bloom anyway.