The Lake Inside Me
It’s not simple to begin anew.
Not after being lied to,
not after loss,
when all the work you give
is torn asunder rather than rewarded.
Confidence—
people talk as if it’s a gift.
It isn’t.
It’s merely years of wounds
made whole in secret,
a river slicing at stone.
They address me as a girl.
Not because I let them make me up,
but because the world enjoys cages.
Boys ridicule drive,
parents discuss my worth in wedlock,
and me?
I quantify dreams.
Parties no longer suit.
I fit with the lake.
With the ocean that never shuts up,
its voice closer to healing
than clapping hands ever were.
Inside, I’m a crowd:
the founder chasing ideas,
the friend holding her girls close,
the brother in spirit,
the messy dreamer
still willing to start again.
I’ve seen countries in my head,
roads that haven’t touched my feet yet,
work still waiting for my hands—
but it’ll need discipline,
respect, honesty.
I don’t pray.
Gods don’t move me.
But karma—
that mirror no one dodges—
which I respect.
So I keep going.
Not tidy. Not perfect.
Just consistent.
Like the tide—
back again, and again.
