I’m going beyond

26 rotations.

The map was never wrong
I just kept mistaking shelter for home, noise for language,
and being seen for being known.
I’ve left pieces of myself in places I swore I’d return to.
Some doors stayed open.
Some names became echoes.
Some versions of me never made it past the season they were born in.
Still, the compass moves.
I’ve learned not every fall deserves a witness.
Not every ascent needs applause.
And sometimes the closest I’ve ever been to home
was somewhere between letting go and having nothing left to hold onto.
I don’t ask the sky for permission anymore.
I don’t explain the distance.
I don’t translate the art.
26 rotations around the same fire, and somehow,
I still haven’t learned to fear the burn.
Anyway,
the compass still moves.

Happy Birthday to me ✨