The Descent

I didn’t fall through light.

I fell through strain.

Through the body

doing what it does

when it’s done pretending

it’s fine.

Thumb to flesh.

Breath held low.

Release that asked

to be witnessed,

not improved,

not made holy,

just let go.

This isn’t grace.

It’s effort.

It’s muscle memory

breaking a vow

to never let the floor feel now.

I stayed.

Even wet.

Even tender.

Even stripped

of the story

that dignity depends

on control.

I laughed—

not from humor,

from survival complete.

From the miracle

of not leaving

when things got real

and human

and messy

and meat.

And then—

the hunger.

Not mouth-hunger.

Not ache-for-more.

A hollow that opened

because something old

finally walked out the door.

A vacancy warm.

A pulse-shaped space.

My gut said:

There is room.

Not for food—

for staying.

For weight.

For me

to take my place.

This hunger doesn’t beg.

It listens.

It waits.

It hums

below language,

below want,

below fate.

And there—

not above,

not sweet,

not bright—

the heart opened

from underneath.

Not love as feeling.

Not love as plea.

Love as capacity

earned by staying

inside me.

I didn’t reach the heart

by rising clean.

I came through bowel,

blood,

pelvic floor,

and the courage

to be seen.

This is the descent.

No wings.

No myth.

Straight through the place

that once clenched

at truth

and learned

to live with it.

Now here I am.

Not light.

Not pure.

But weighted.

And warm.

And habitable.