The Ruble Knows

It wasn’t a regular storm.
It was a hurricane. 
No slow unraveling, 
just the crash and howl of wind 
ripping at the seams of us. 
The life we built splintered 
before I could brace for impact. 

The hush that followed wasn’t silence, 
it was pressure. 
Like the air itself forgot how to breathe. 
My throat lined with rubble and wreckage, 
every word a collapsed beam 
I couldn’t lift yet. 

I moved through the wreckage softly, 
careful not to crush what was left. 
Held the sharp edges like old friends, 
learned their names, 
let them teach me how to bleed  without bitterness.
I didn’t board up the windows.  
I let the light in, 
even when it stung. 

You say you are sorry,  
and maybe you are. 
But sorrow without growth 
is just another flood 
that ruins what it doesn’t rebuild. 
I’ve seen enough erosion to know 
which waters nourish 
and which ones rot. 

Growth is not guilt.
It’s showing up, 
sleeves rolled, 
ready to dig through the damage. 
Empty words are not sandbags. 
They do not hold back the flood. 
They hold nothing back but the truth.