I was born beneath a restless sky,
Where scales were hung against the flame.
One hand reached out to question above,
The other dared to question fate.
I came with oceans in my chest,
And little storms behind my eyes.
A thousand thoughts dressed up as silence,
A thousand truths disguised as lies.
I learned to speak in borrowed tongues,
To wear the weather of a room.
To make a garden out of ashes,
And call the dying flowers bloom.
I made myself a thousand things –
A shelter, staircase, borrowed door.
Yet I wondered why, when all were home,
I could not find myself once more.
I gave away the softer parts,
Mistaking sacrifice for grace.
Until I found that even kindness
Can become a hiding place.
For what is love, if not a mirror
That sometimes fractures what it shows?
And what is loyalty, if not a flower
That dies wherever neglect grows?
I have known the art of disappearing
While standing in the brightest light.
Of being everything to everyone,
And nobody’s in my own sight.
Yet I was never quite the lamb,
Nor ever wholly beast.
I kept a little heaven in my heart
And entertained the darker east.
I have a little graveyard
Where my former selves reside.
I visit when the moon is full,
But never sleep inside.
Some wore crowns made out of wanting,
Some wore shame beneath their skin.
Some were born to please the world,
And some were born to burn it down within.
I buried none without a prayer.
I cursed none without a cause.
For even my most broken versions
Were fighting with imperfect laws.
And somewhere in the wreckage
Of the woman I had been,
I found an entity who asked no questions
About the shape I was within.
I asked the stars to name me once,
They answered with a sky.
Perhaps a soul is not a thing
That can be classified.
I counted numbers in the darkness,
Found patterns in the passing years.
The universe spoke in repetitions,
Or perhaps I listened through the years.
I found a language in the ancient,
A little wisdom in the flame.
Krishna taught the art of leaving,
Without abandoning the game.
For detachment is not absence,
Nor does surrender mean defeat.
Sometimes the holiest revolution
Is refusing to repeat.
And Kali kept a quiet vigil,
Where the things I outgrew would fall.
She taught me that destruction
Is not the opposite of creation,
Sometimes it is the call.
I carry many goddesses within,
Though none have claimed my name.
One teaches me to build a life,
One teaches me to bear the flame.
One gives language to my longing,
One gives courage to my fight,
And one reminds me that the darkness
Is not proof of absence of light.
But heaven has a sense of humor,
I’ve found that to be true.
I can contemplate eternity,
Then lose my keys at quarter to two.
I can question human nature,
Study stars and sacred texts,
Then spend an hour overthinking
What somebody meant by their last text.
I am both the grand philosopher
And the fool who laughs too loud.
The woman searching for Nirvana
And the one who hates a crowded cloud.
I have wanted to be witnessed,
Yet resented being seen.
Wanted every door to open,
Then questioned what was waiting in between.
I have dreamt of distant stages,
Of stories yet untold.
Of building something with my name on it,
Of turning restless thoughts to gold.
Yet somewhere in my dreaming
There is a kitchen, warm and bright.
A window welcoming the morning,
A home that feels like coming right.
A life with room for little rituals,
For laughter, prayer, and art.
A love that does not ask me
To amputate a piece of my heart.
For I have learned that being wanted
Is not the same as being known.
And being someone’s whole damn universe,
Means nothing if you feel alone.
I do not wish to conquer love.
I do not wish to win.
I want a hand that stays beside me
When the world grows cold within.
I want the ordinary miracle,
The kind no fortune-teller sees.
Two souls building something lasting
Between the realms of chaos and the peace.
And if tomorrow calls me different,
I shall not answer with regret.
For I have never been a finished thing,
And I am not finished yet.
There are seasons in a woman
That no calendar can keep;
Some awaken in the morning,
Some are cultivated deep.
Some must wander through the winter
Before they recognize the spring;
Some must lose the need for answers
To understand a single thing.
I have walked through many winters.
I have mistaken storms for signs.
I have searched for hidden meanings
In the spaces between lines.
But perhaps the greatest mystery,
Was never written in the stars.
Perhaps the hardest thing in living
Is accepting who we are.
So let the world invent its labels.
Let it measure, name, and weigh.
I was never built for fitting,
In the boxes that they made.
I am neither saint nor sinner,
Neither shadow, nor the sun.
I am every contradiction
That refuses to be one.
And should you ask what became of me
When all the noise had disappeared…
I became the woman
I had spent my whole life
trying not to fear.
I became the unanswered question.
The unwritten final page.
The quiet after thunder.
The wisdom after rage.
I became the open window
After years behind a door.
And I no longer ask the universe
What it has planned me for.
For I have spent a lifetime
Trying to discover who I am.
And perhaps the soul’s greatest freedom
Is knowing it need not understand.
I was never lost.
I was simply too many things
to be found in one lifetime.
– nk
