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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “The Eruption Beneath My Skin”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I knelt in the cradle of my own surrender, where roots learned the tender burn of flesh, and soil clung to my spine like a prayer I could never quite unearth. Petals broke through my bone, hungry for a light I had yet to name, unfurling the ache into something no mirror could contain. This is how beauty is made — in the split of old wounds, the hushed bargain between pain and promise, between what was me and what longs to be more. For a breath, I tried to refuse — the eruption a blade against my ribs, the growth a savage claiming — but still I gave my marrow to the stem, my stillness to the eruption, so the world might taste the soft riot of my becoming — thorns and velvet, fragile and fierce, a blossom grown from the ruin of myself.
Lyrics
I knelt in the cradle of my own surrender, where roots learned the tender burn of flesh, and soil clung to my spine like a prayer I could never quite unearth. Petals broke through my bone, hungry for a light I had yet to name, unfurling the ache into something no mirror could contain. This is how beauty is made — in the split of old wounds, the hushed bargain between pain and promise, between what was me and what longs to be more. For a breath, I tried to refuse — the eruption a blade against my ribs, the growth a savage claiming — but still I gave my marrow to the stem, my stillness to the eruption, so the world might taste the soft riot of my becoming — thorns and velvet, fragile and fierce, a blossom grown from the ruin of myself.
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