Meredith's Heart

She carries a sword she didn't ask for 

and a shield she made herself 

from everything that didn't kill her.

She has tasted envy like copper — 

clean, metallic, honest. 

She has longed so far into the distance 

she became the horizon. 

She has ached in languages 

only the body understands.

Sometimes she needs to breathe 

like a storm needs to move — 

not to calm down, 

but to remember her own power.

Sometimes she shadow boxes 

not because there's an enemy 

but because her hands 

need to know 

they still exist.

She is gut and marrow. 

She is the thing that knew 

before the mind 

caught up.

She is not the loudest voice. 

She is the oldest one.

And she has never — 

not once — 

needed your permission to be real.

So let her grieve what was. 

Let her want what isn't yet. 

Let her be spiteful and sacred in the same breath.

She is not your wound. She is your witness.

The one who stayed 

when all the other versions of you 

were still deciding 

whether they should.