37

This year, I unwrapped happiness—

not in a box, but in the way
dawn spills over the windowsill,
slow, like honey off a spoon.
Love, friendship, joy, peace—
gifts that don’t gather dust.

Last night, we danced
where the ocean licks the sand,
moonlight stitching our shadows
to the waves. These same shores
that once drank my tears
now tremble with my laughter,
a chorus of finally, finally.

I slipped out of ill-fitting clothes—
fabric of other people’s dreams,
threadbare with borrowed light—
and found beneath it all:
my skin. Not perfect, but mine.
37, and I fit inside myself
like a truth too long unspoken.

Happy birthday, the universe whispers,
and for the first time,
I believe her.