Borrowed Sunshine
Some days, the sun rises too gently,
and I flinch.
As if even daylight is a mistake,
a wrong number dialed by the cosmos
that found me instead of someone holier.
There is sweetness in my hands now,
but I stare at them like they're bloodied.
Goodness drips slow and warm between my fingers
and I wonder
if I stole it from someone who prayed harder,
someone who didn’t tremble
when joy knocked on their door.
They say you earn this.
That blessings come
to those who build altars from their pain
and light candles instead of matches.
But I –
I lit fires,
I left when I should’ve stayed,
I stayed when silence begged me to go.
I cursed stars that tried to love me.
So why is the sky so blue now?
Why do I have enough?
Why does love not flinch when I reach for it?
I am not sure if I belong in this garden
where everything blooms too easily,
where laughter doesn’t come
wrapped in apology.
I keep expecting the ground to open,
a joke from the gods,
a reckoning delayed.
Gratitude lives in my throat,
but shame sits beside it,
chewing on the same words.
And every “thank you”
sounds like an alibi.
What if I’m a shadow pretending at form?
What if happiness is just a borrowed coat
that the real owner will come
to snatch back when winter begins?
I know people who drown
with every sunrise.
I know people
whose hands stay empty
no matter how much they pray.
So who am I to be full?
To be safe?
To be loved
as if I never broke the world that loved me first?
And maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I did.
The math doesn’t add up either way.
I’m just here,
standing in the light,
wondering when someone will notice
I don’t belong in it.