Saturn

I am a planet wrapped in my own debris, a celestial body spinning in the void, my rings forged from the shards of what I could not keep. Time, that indifferent sculptor, has carved me into something I barely recognize—a mosaic of fractures, a tapestry of scars. And yet, I am told this is beauty. This is growth.

The stars whisper their cold truths: You are not what you were. And they are right. I am not the girl who once believed in the simplicity of light, who thought the universe would cradle her in its arms and sing her to sleep. I am the woman who has learned to cradle herself, to sing her own lullabies in the dark.

Saturn does not apologize for its rings. It wears them like a crown. And I? I wear my pain like a second skin, a map of all the places I have been and all the battles I have fought. The cracks in my heart are not flaws; they are the fault lines of a soul that has trembled but not shattered.

Time is a thief, they say. But I have learned to steal it back. Every wrinkle, every gray hair, every scar is a trophy, a reminder that I have outlived my sorrows. I have outlived the nights when the weight of the world pressed down on my chest and I could not breathe. I have outlived the days when I thought I would never smile again.

Still, I orbit. I move through the darkness, not because I am brave, but because I have no other choice. The sun calls to me, its warmth a distant promise, and I answer. I always answer. For even in the coldest reaches of space, there is light. Even in the deepest corners of my mind, there is hope.

I am not what I was. I am more. I am less. I am everything and nothing, a paradox wrapped in flesh and bone. Like Saturn, I am a mystery to myself. Like Saturn, I am a work in progress. Like Saturn, I know I only get better with time.