Come.
Remember the sun-warmed blanket
your grandmother crocheted.
Remember the whisper of a secret shared,
of a history you were never told to keep.
You don't need to arrange your sorrow,
or tuck your strangeness in.

It’s a tangled, wild beginning,
and we're here for the whole of it.
You are the quiet garden O’Keeffe kept,
the storm in Virginia’s gaze.
You are Frida's defiant breath,
the truth of your unedited days.

Here, we praise the things you were told to hide,
the messy, unspoken cracks in your soul.
Lay your head here, on the softness.
Let the kettle’s ache become a hum.
Taste the tea, bitter with old betrayals,
sweetened by the home you've become.

Listen for the deep, solid comfort
that says you are not wrong.
We don't praise you for being small,
or for fitting in the frame.

We want to hear the truth of you,
whispering your forbidden name.
We'll hold the parts you were taught to loathe,
and see the freedom waiting in your soul.

The freedom you crave isn’t earned.
It’s a river, waiting to be freed.
You have been held by this love
long before you knew you had the need.
Breathe. And just be.

You have come home to me.