Bathtub

I dip my toes in the water,

then my legs, then my whole body

submerged,

except for the tips of my breasts

like icebergs

rising from the ocean.

The unseen depths,

sensed only by instinct.

Tenderness, sacrifice,

wounds and scars

telling the story of love.

My belly, soft

once a home.

I place one hand on my belly,

the other on my heart.

Under water,

my heartbeat echoes loud.

My body—a sanctuary,

a sacred place

that once belonged only to me.

Now it gives.

Milk seeps from my pores.

Blood flows.

Tears fall—

joy and grief,

fear and bravery,

all housed within me.

Postpartum is not a straight road—

it spirals, stretches, collapses,

expands like moss across stone,

birthing strange creatures,

golden, glowing, unfamiliar.

And it crashes

like a wave mid-storm,

dragging everything

toward shore,

hungry,

cleansing.

The water warms me.

I breathe.

I witness the worlds within:

some falling apart,

some I no longer want.

A wave of release moves through me.

I drift away from the noise,

into the current.

Nature catches me,

holds me

in this sacred moment.