You Might Be The After

I’ve known survival
like a second skin—
tight,
stretched thin,
stitched in silence
where the bleeding used to be.

I’ve walked through fire
in bare feet,
smiling,
so no one would ask
why I never looked up.

I’ve kissed with my eyes open,
said “I’m fine” like a ritual,
left parties early
and people sooner—
always a door in the back of my mind,
just in case.

But you—

you feel like something
I don’t want to run from.
You speak
and my lungs
forget they used to tremble.

You touch me
like I’m not a battlefield.
Like there’s nothing sharp
left inside me to fear.

With you,
I laugh mid-sentence
and forget what I was guarding.
I wake
and don’t brace for impact.
I sit still
and don’t flinch at the quiet.

You are not the storm.
You are what grows after.
The green things.
The soft return of birds.
The sound of my name,
gentle again.

I don’t know how long I’ve been healing—
but I know this:

I think you might be
the after.