It is I.
My heart feels as if it encapsulates the sun.
Radiance in my every step—a halo of solar flares braiding through my hair.
Fire leaving my bouncing heels.
A stem of golden light weaves through my veins, and I grow strong—the scars on my wrist burn bright in triumph.
I am blossoming.
I am blossoming.
Blooming into my own self—happiness is gilded into my ribcage.
So when you said: “what happened with him to make you so happy?” My leaves wilted.
Ever so slightly.
For,
It is not him.
It is not him.
It is I.










