Some days the sky feels close enough to break,
Each cloud a mirror of what burns inside—
A thousand selves that bloom, or ache, or shake.
The heart runs fast; the mind becomes the tide,
Each wave returning different, never known.
The calm feels false, the storm feels justified.
You reach for love, afraid to be alone,
Yet distance cuts as sharply as the fear.
The wound is ancient, but not carved in stone.
And still, through all the shifting, something clear—
A wish to heal, to hold, to stay, to be.
The self survives, though fragile and sincere.
So speak your name with gentle honesty;
You are not chaos — you are poetry.