The Forest That Knows My Name

There is a forest older than memory  

where the trees lean in when you speak,  

as if they’ve been waiting centuries  

to hear your version of the story.  

I went there on a day  

when my heart felt too heavy to carry,  

when my past felt like a curse  

I didn’t remember earning.  

The forest didn’t offer comfort.  

It offered truth.  

Branches creaked like old bones,  

roots shifted beneath my feet  

as if testing my resolve.  

“You are not broken,”  

the wind whispered,  

“you are becoming.”  

And something inside me cracked—  

not the kind that destroys,  

but the kind that lets the light in  

through wounds that were never my fault.  

I left with dirt under my nails  

and a spine that felt older,  

stronger,  

like the forest had carved its name  

into my marrow.  

Sometimes healing isn’t gentle.  

Sometimes it’s ancient,  

feral,  

and waiting for you  

to finally step into yourself.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤