My Blood is Ink

Each morning, 

I return to the altar of paper—

not white, not blank,

but waiting.

The pen, like a small god

learning my name again.

I do not pray—

I spill.

Words gather like fragments of burnt sage,

cleansing me, 

my body,

my mind. 

Every poem is an offering

to the self I almost abandoned.

I write to remember

that my hands still know how to move,

that my heartbeat keeps time

even when I forget the song.

Some days, this is all ceremony needs—

ink, breath, stillness.

Other days, I tear the page in half

burn the paper,

breathe in the smoke,

and call it healing.

Each line is a candle wick—

flickering, flawed,

but lit.

Through this ritual, 

I meet myself anew,

not saint 

or survivor,

but something in between—

a poet rebuilding identity

one line at a time