The stories I tell myself
are woven into the marrow—
the moon was born from a dream
my grandfather forgot to finish,
and my laughter is stitched
from a goddess's torn veil.
Truth shifts its shape,
tangled in the roots of my mother's voice,
until the myths grow roots in my chest—
blossoming
into everything I choose to remember.
I carry a thousand fables
in the silence of my bones,
and somewhere between myth and memory
I am real enough to disappear.
