Is it when my voice
is heavy with no,
or when silence chains me
to the no I couldn’t say?

Is it when my hands
refuse to move
in the dance they command,
or when they move anyway
just to keep the peace?

Do I lose my beauty
when my smile doesn’t bloom
on cue,
when my nod isn’t obedient,
when my spine stays straight
instead of bending?

Do I fade
when I cross streets in straight lines,
stand still where told,
pretend I’m fine—
even pretend I’m dead—
to survive the laughter
that stings?

Do I stop being lovely
when my lips pray
instead of pouting,
when they sing,
recite verses,
or whisper secrets to the wind,
but refuse to curse
for entertainment?

Tell me—
is beauty only mine
when I surrender,
when I ache quietly,
when I let their script
become my skin?

Or do I stop being pretty
the moment I live
for myself?

A paper once empty, quiet, still,
now breathes with words, with heart, with will.

Ink spills a story, soft and true,
a piece of soul it carries through.

Across the distance, far and wide,
it brings a presence to your side.

The folds, the scent, the weight it bears,
are more than signs—it's love that cares.

What greater treasure could there be,
than words that hold eternity?

Oh handwritten letter, rare, profound,
a silent voice that still resounds.

She was like music,
and I longed to dance.

Her heart was the beat,
and I begged for the chance.

Her words were the vocals,
and I was put in a trance.

Her smile was the melody,
and I fell in love at first glance.