01/17/2026
I didnât fall through light.
I fell through strain.
Through the body
doing what it does
when itâs done pretending
itâs fine.
Thumb to flesh.
Breath held low.
Release that asked
to be witnessed,
not improved,
not made holy,
just let go.
This isnât grace.
Itâs effort.
Itâs 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 laughedâ
not from humor,
from survival complete.
From the miracle
of not leaving
when things got real
and human
and messy
and meat.
And thenâ
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 foodâ
for staying.
For weight.
For me
to take my place.
This hunger doesnât beg.
It listens.
It waits.
It hums
below language,
below want,
below fate.
And thereâ
not above,
not sweet,
not brightâ
the heart opened
from underneath.
Not love as feeling.
Not love as plea.
Love as capacity
earned by staying
inside me.
I didnât 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.
â To The Bone, Dr. Jasmine
