Eight thousand sixty-seven times,
the sun has risen for me.
Even when I didn't want it to.
There were mornings when light
felt like a lie,
when childhood was a cage
and love wore a cruel mask.
I grew up anyway.
Like a flower through a crack
in a concrete sidewalk,
I found my way toward light.
I learned to listen
to the quiet between storms,
the whisper of my own breath
telling me to keep going.
Morning always came.
Now, here I stand,
where the paved path
vanishes into wildflowers,
footprints behind me
making way for new life.
This is my next page.
The ink is still wet,
the air smells like hope.
And the sun —
the eight thousand sixty-eighth sun —
is rising.
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