Once I was done pointing fingers,
My reflection lost its devil’s horns.
The pain still floats and lingers,
But my contract with death is torn.
Once I was done blaming strangers,
Color seeped back into my eyes.
I thought I was a lone ranger,
But fate gave me a free second try.
And once I was done complaining,
My bones found a place they fit.
No, I am not a saint in training,
But I count blessings more than I admit.
-Jackie