i bless what buried me | poem

25 Mar, 2025

the sky split open the day i was born.
and i think god, or something like him,
took one look at me and said,
“this one will not break easy.”
and i did not.
i came into the world
all splinter and sinew,
a wild thing in a world that wanted
something tame.
i was teeth before i was ever a voice.
i was a fist before i was ever an open hand.
i learned to survive by biting
the hands that tried to feed me
until they sounded like bone.
because i had already learned
that kindness always came
with a collar.

for a long time, i lived like that —
knuckles bruised on every door
i was never meant to walk through.
i held my breath under the water
so long they thought i was baptized.
they smiled in their pews
while i drowned quietly at their feet.
no one noticed.
or maybe they did,
and looking away was easier
than reaching in.

they raised me tough,
and i sharpened myself to match.
i was their steel girl,
their weathered thing.
but iron rusts in the rain.
and something inside me softened
when the storm finally came.

they said softness would
make me bleed,
and they were right.
but i bled rivers
that carved valleys,
that bloomed wildflowers
i didn’t plant.
their roots grew deep in me anyway.
sometimes i think the most beautiful things
are what we never asked for.

i buried them all in my garden —
the friends who loved the shape of my light
but left when it flickered,
the ones who loved the way i laughed
but never asked why i wasn’t sleeping.
who braided my hair
but never stayed long enough to
untangle it.
i buried them gently,
because i know now
they didn’t have the strength to carry me
and themselves too.
not everyone is meant for that kind of labor.
i still wish they’d tried.

the family who only ever came
back for the funeral,
who brought rice cakes wrapped
in clean paper towels
and stiff apologies folded
between their hands,
but never once said they were sorry
for the winters they left me cold
in my own house.
who taught me to bow before we ate
but never met my eyes
when i was starving for something
more than duty.
who said i was ungrateful
when all i wanted was kindness
instead of silence.
who told me to lower my gaze,
because shame is loud
and the neighbors are always listening.
i buried them under the old persimmon tree
they used to tie red ribbons around
when they prayed for luck.
i think maybe their ancestors are still listening.
i hope they are gentler with them
than they ever were with me.

and the boys —
the boys who pressed their hand to my mouth
and told me silence would save us both.
who taught me that quiet girls
are easier to leave behind.
the ones that spoke of love,
but meant stay small.
who kissed me like they were confessing a sin
and then asked me to keep it secret.
i buried them deep in the wildflowers,
because part of me wanted to make
something beautiful
out of the ache.
and i have.
god, i have.

i planted lilies in their names
and let the rain take them.
the lilies bloomed white and clean,
even with my blood in the soil.
some mornings, i kneel there,
in the loam and the dirt
and bless the ground
where they were cruel to me.
i say their names aloud
like a prayer i finally understand —
not because they deserve it,
but because i do.

you could call it mercy.
you could call it a funeral done right.

now i walk through the fields,
barefoot and unafraid of thorns.
my hands are empty but open.
there are flies in the air,
and they do not bother me.
i have learned how to live
with the hum of unfinished songs.
some stories do not need an ending
to be complete.

i used to beg for heaven
like a starving thing,
my throat raw with want.
i clawed at the gates
until my nails cracked and bled.
no one answered.
so i stopped knocking.
and now —
now i find god in the quiet places.
in the hush after a goodbye
that was kinder than it needed to be.
in the warmth of my own palms
when i press them together,
not in prayer,
but in gratitude
for how far they have carried me.

i am free of them all.
and still, i loved them.
and still, i love them.

their names float
like pollen in the sunlight,
and i do not swat them away.
they settle on my skin
and i wear them like freckles.
i sit with their absence
like an old friend and
do not ask them to come back.

they are forgiven,
even if they never knew
they needed forgiveness.
even if they would never
ask for it.
i forgave them anyway,
because i was tired of carrying a house
built from their forgetting.

this is my grace:
i carry their ghosts
like water in my hands —
spilling,
but never thrown away.
their faces blur in the reflection,
and still i cup them gently.
i press my lips to the surface
and drink.
not because i thirst,
but because i can.

i leave the door open
for any of them
who wish to come home.
but i do not wait.
i do not wait.
i am already walking
toward the next wide plain
where the light breaks softer
than i ever believed it could.
where the wind calls me
by my own name,
and i answer.

and when the time comes,
i will see them again.
at the edge of some river,
or across the fields,
hands raised in quiet recognition.
maybe we will smile.
maybe we will not.

either way,
i will have loved them all.
either way,
i will keep walking.