There is a map folded inside you,
its edges frayed from unfolding, refolding.
No one sees roads you have taken,
rivers you have crossed
with only the sound of your breath to guide.
Each question you’ve asked
was a hand brushing against the dark,
each answer a fractal forward,
though it may have looked, to others,
like stillness.
In a room full of voices,
only you carry the weight of your knowing,
the unmeasured grace of your survival.
Not louder, not brighter,
but steady, deliberate.
The smartest in the room
is not the one who has read stars,
but the one who knows how to walk
without fearing night.
What you carry is yours alone—
the burdens, the victories,
the quiet clarity
that grows only in the soil of your path.
