I wasn’t born with gold in my veins,
just the dim light of an overcast dawn;
a child of shadows reaching for light,
that slipped through cracks too small to hold.
The sun was a stranger,
distant yet warm,
as I stared at it outside my window.
A radiance I couldn’t wear,
not with this skin of paper
and heart of ash.
The light bent through the glass,
a soft glow in the stillness.
It scattered across the room in fragments,
making stars out of every speck of dust.
I wondered,
if the sun could shatter itself to reach me,
why couldn’t I?
So I learnt the art of burning.
First, I burnt the walls of comfort,
then, I burnt the fear of shattering.
The fire grazed my skin,
it melted me from within.
I thought I’d break;
I did.
In breaking, I bled gold.

About The Poet

Rashida is a young poet with a deep appreciation for language and its ability to capture the complexity of human emotions. Inspired by art, literature, and the paradoxes of life, she writes to connect with others and explore the world through words.