I was my own hero

I am my own hero,

not because I fly or hold the sun,

but because when the foundations cracked

and the roof gave way to the weight of it all,

I did not let the dust become my grave.

I broke into a thousand quiet psalms,

sharp-edged and heavy,

yet I reached into the wreckage

with tired, shaking hands

and pulled myself back into the light.

This is not the vanity of a golden statue,

nor a heart turned inward to worship its own beat.

I see the grime under my fingernails;

I know I am clumsy, fragile, and deeply human.

I do not crave a pedestal or a crowd.

It is simply this:

when there was no one left in the room

to tell me I was worth saving,

I looked at the shards

and chose to begin the work.