The Hidden Journal

It doesn’t burst in.
It creeps softly through the cracks —
a quiet visitor
that finds me still breathing,
still here.

───

The light doesn’t ask where I’ve been.
It just begins again,
touching the places that once hurt to look at,
reminding me that nothing stays gone forever.

───

When the light returns,
it doesn’t erase the night —
it carries it.
It folds the dark into its brightness,
makes it shimmer.
And I see it clearly now —
the two were never enemies,
just different ways of seeing.

───

This is how morning speaks:
not in triumph,
but in forgiveness.
Not in noise,
but in warmth.
Not as a rescue,
but as a reminder.

───

When the light returns,
so do I —
not as who I was,
but as someone who knows
how to find herself
even in the dark.

───

— Desiree