Broken sticks, healing strokes

My emotions anchor me, weighted to the depths of myself. I am deserted with my thoughts, no escape from who I am. I must learn to love myself as God loves me. With trembling hands, I found a broken stick— its edge sharpened against the cracks of my palms, splinters digging into skin worn by the weight of my words. On a patch of sand, I began to write. First, it felt foolish— lines dissolving with every breeze. Clarity emerged with every stroke, each word an echo of my heart. I felt my anchor grow lighter, the sand absorbing the weight. And for the first time, I began to understand myself.