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three days now i have been writing.
two days ago i sat in the remembering — the churchyard, the crow girl, the eviction letter, the ten days, Hope in a carrier above the clouds. i wrote the poem for her, for me, for the girl in the self-portrait who was braver than she knew. i called it three years tomorrow and it was a reckoning with what was taken from me.
yesterday i wrote the messiah, the saviour — the words that came pouring out about the one who presented himself as chosen, as divine, as above reproach. the sheer arrogance. the magic crystal extravagance. and then the waking up — the surprise: i was unholy prepared and i lost it. lost me.
today i am in the inbetween again.
not the geographical inbetween of south london and sweden. not the ten days inbetween of a life packed into boxes. but the spiritual inbetween — the place where the old story ends and the new one has not yet found its shape.
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the blossoming wake — the beginning.
that line keeps returning to me. i wrote it in my notes and it glowed there like something holy. because a wake is two things: it is a vigil for the dead, and it is the trail left by something moving through water. and a blossoming wake is both — grief that flowers, and the path forward blooming behind you as you go.
i pray for innocence.
not the innocence of not knowing — that is gone forever. but the innocence of still being willing to begin. of still believing that the seeds can be sown even in scorched earth. that the epiphany, when it was born, was real. that the obligation of truth to protect the vulnerable is not just words but the ground i am building my life on now.
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in the churchyard between the gravestones and the daffodils, i wrote because that is what the crow girl does. in the notes app at 3am, i wrote because the words were coming whether i was ready or not. in the voice notes on my phone, i spoke because sometimes the body knows before the hands do.
and i think — this is the creation of angels. not the false kind, not the ones who present themselves in blizzards of glistening rose petals and diamond rain. but the real ones. the ones made from scorched earth and morning light. the ones who sit among the dead and find words for the living.
by virtue, my hand was forced. in constant awe.
the delayed punishment. the delayed justice. but also — the delayed blossoming. because some flowers need frost before they can open. some stories need three years of silence before they can be told.
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so here i am. day three.
the crow girl in the churchyard. the girl who woke up. the girl who is giving birth — not to a child, not to a saviour, but to herself. to the version of herself that knows what happened and chooses to keep going. who takes the notes, the voice memos, the self-portraits, the poems written at 3am, and says: this is my testimony. this is my evidence. this is my blossoming wake.
not that I have come far — but still.
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faith · hope · love
alice amorina saga rose