Maybe This Is Me.

I want to believe in what you see— the root beneath what once was me. But blooming is a quiet ache, and not a thing I fake or fake. I've lived so long beneath the frost, I learned to name the cold as cost. To move again, to stretch or bend— feels like a risk, and not pretend. But still, I felt your warmth arrive, a sun that didn’t ask I thrive. It didn’t rush, it didn’t pull— it simply made the silence full. So here I am—not bold, not bright— but different in the morning light. Not cured, not healed, but something stirred, like soil beneath a sleeping word. If this is growth, then let it be— not loud, but slow. And maybe me._ ~Frozenova