i have stood here longer than anyone loved me on purpose
the scar down my spine is not decoration
it is memory that refused to close
somebody staked me straight once
thought correction was the same as care
i grew sideways instead
because even trees know the difference between being held and being forced
my roots came up through the dirt like hands
like something underground got tired of waiting to be seen
i am not falling apart
i am done pretending the breaking didn’t happen
the branch that came down across my shoulder
i did not shrug it off
i wrapped my whole body around the wound
because that is what you do with the thing that almost killed you
you learn its weight
you call it mine
there used to be more of us here
i remember them by their absence
the shape of a stump going soft into moss
a ring of grass greener where a trunk used to stand
someone put up wire where a herd used to run
and called the fence progress
the field settled into forgetting
i am still here, the one thing that wouldn’t
feel how many winters tried to finish me
and left instead
each one carved something into me
that no longer hurts when you touch it
it just answers
i am not graceful
i split down the middle once and grew two directions from the wound
that is not elegant
that is just what staying alive looked like from the inside
and if something in you breaks open looking at me
let it be because you recognize what you’re seeing
not because i told you to
i am still standing
long after everyone stopped expecting it to matter
—lyra moon (i split down the middle once and grew two directions from the wound)
august 28, 2026