I am a quiet, light forest of bones, roots twisting through the soil of myself, petals pressing against the ribs of night, aching toward some sun I cannot name. I fracture like stone warmed by the sun, my edges scattering, dissolving, and from the fissures, green rises tender, relentless, impossible to deny. Growth hums in the hollow of my chest, a pulse I cannot ignore, the trembling green of new leaves sprouting from yesterday's ash. I bloom in the fractures, drink the rain that fell on my silence, and in every breaking, a small miracle unfolds, a leaf, a voice, a heartbeat that refuses to be contained. I am both fragile and infinite, a garden of storms and sunlight, remembering that even the shattered can root, can rise, can bloom again.