I climb from where the floor gave out,
one rung at a time. Stitching torn edges with fingers that learned to mend.
Old wounds start callousing the way to lay new scaffolding.
I, I plant small anchors under every unsure footfall.
Breathing in, I turn each bruise into a step of warmth.
They line the parade with demands, hands waving quick designs.
I folded those blueprints, picked my tools from quieter piles.
I trip on loose planks, nights when the map blurred to rain.
Each tumble taught the brace how to splice a tired theme.
My palms learn to count the screws, the angles, and the weight.
Oh.
Home, home, home. I gather every rung, I shape a place like home.
Anchored, anchored, anchored.