endless metamorphosis

We gather what the tide forgets. Rust, bone, and the salt of old selves. We do not mourn the shedding, for the serpent knows that to outgrow the skin is to live. These artefacts are ballads of survival: the soft, programmed magic of dismantling our ghosts to build a house of fragments. Here, we peel back the layers we were told to carry. We salvage the wreckage of our transitions. We carve our names into the discarded until they breathe again. This is not loss. It is the holy, necessary work of becoming.