Tender Architecture

Tilt my throat to the sky

As if I belong to the sun

Not to be chosen

Not to be touched

But to be taken

By something

That does not ask

My name

But here

Light arrives

Like a blade

I do not flinch

I let it see me

And my pulse that has carried

Too many unsaid things

I have been quiet

In rooms

That did not deserve me

I have folded myself

Into smaller weather

I do not lower my face

I do not hide

The tender architecture

Of being alive