“My love, you are fragile,”
I whisper, rocking slowly,
back and forth, knees drawn close,
a stillness heavy in my chest.
Your soul may feel shattered—
but don’t tread its jagged edges
with unguarded feet.

You are no wasted soul.
Do not name yourself weak.
Remember your roots,
buried deep in unyielding mud.
Like the lotus, you were made
to thrive in the dark,
to gather strength from what others shun.

The darkness is not your end—
it is your beginning.
From the mire, you will rise,
break through the surface,
undaunted by the weight of silence.

Reach for the sun,
not to conquer, but to breathe.
Unfurl your petals to the light,
whole, free,
a lotus in bloom—radiant, unbroken.