Cuts I carry. Not as wounds. But witnesses.
It was a rainy morning.
Like an old warning we’d learned to live with.
There are cuts you cannot see,
Only feel under your skin.
They wind through your veins like secret stairways
Spiraling toward a promise—half remembered, half prayed—
All that glitters in the hush between the mind and spirit.
A hush carrying something ancient and unspoken,
Where truth bleeds slowly,
But cuts deep.
Somewhere between hope and habit,
You place your weight,
Testing the way forward,
And the path answers,
calmly.
They run through your pulse.
Through the hush.
Unspoken.
But Alive.
Solstice can feel like water:
Smooth,
Unbroken
Holding everything in its place.
But even water can shatter:
Under enough strain,
Under enough ice,
Under enough night.
Because sometimes,
Things break softly,
no crash,
no scream,
just a silence so deep you can almost drown in it.
I am learning to stand in that silence.
To feel every edge of the break.
Without force,
Without pretense.
Rain has its own language.
Sometimes it doesn’t ask you to listen,
but it dares you to.
It’s honest music.
I watch the rain trace paths down glass,
A hush that rain brings,
A kind of pause,
Like nature’s hard reset.
You learn about yourself in those moments.
About how you want to move forward,
And what you’re willing to leave behind.
And still,
A glimmer stays:
That one day,
Something will pour down glass,
Stars, Light, Rain,
And move through me again.
Maybe the pieces will never fit the way I thought they would.
Maybe they glint with memories I’m unsure of.
Maybe that’s the price of caring,
And staying conscious.
And still,
I would reach for them.
Even if it cuts.
Even if it costs.
Because some things are worth the blood.
July 20, 2025