I’m now letting my hair grow and my wrist clean

At last, she’s back—the daughter my mom prayed for to buddy up with happiness, and this time, with a sealed license.

I have never liked to hold on to what’s making me burn my last hope. Not because I kept on making out alive doesn’t mean I had no intention of seeking the oxygen I lent to my senior problems. Now, I apologize for inhaling a foul air that didn’t match my needs.

To all the corners who have seen my curtained, sun-kissed chopped hair on the ground and the lava cascading on my wrist, I kneel not to be guilt-ridden but to owe you for the commotion of the figurines, for I was saved—the intentional sounds you sent delivered me to be saved.

To want the shades of yellow to greet me in my mornings is when I knew I still take a fancy to be bathed with growth. To be reskinned with softness was a new form for me to make it up for idolizing burnouts for the moments I should be out, catching filters of skies, spilling from above.

For as long as my feet are making a rebirth in me, I am certain that it will have an option to walk away from things that were ruining me.

No one’s clapping so loud for me than my older self could, for I finally stopped watering a dead flower; it’s now my turn to pull out this illness from the roots…