There was a time I carried hurt
like a second skin—
every crack and scar a story I told myself,
a story I swore was true.

I cradled that pain like a child,
fed it, sang to it, let it grow inside me,
until its roots tangled with my ribs,
its leaves whispered in my lungs.
It became so familiar,
I forgot what it was like
to breathe without its weight.

But healing is a quiet rebellion.
It does not storm in;
it tiptoes like a sunrise,
peeling back the dark
layer by tender layer.

One day, I stopped asking why
and started asking how.
How do I unspool this thread of hurt?
How do I make space for the truth?
Not the truth I told myself to survive,
but the truth that sets me free.

It turns out, healing isn't forgetting.
It isn’t pressing rewind
or pretending the hurt was never there.
It’s holding it up to the light,
examining every jagged edge,
and saying, “I see you. But you don’t own me.”

I am learning that letting go
isn’t a loss; it’s a choice.
To let the past rest
without dragging it behind me.
To forgive—not for them, but for me.
To unclench my fists and find my palms
open, ready to hold joy again.

And now, as I walk forward,
I am lighter,
like a bird that has finally noticed
the sky has always been there,
waiting,
ready to carry me home.

I would give the winter's breath,
the shiver of frost on every pane,
to hold the weight of your laughter again,
to braid your name into the soft dusk.

I would give the moon,
its chalky whispers in the dark,
to hear your voice once more—
a ribbon of light cutting through my grief.

Oh, I would give my hands,
these tired, trembling hands,
if they could reach through the thin veil of silence,
if they could cradle your cheek,
brush your hair like I used to,
sing you to sleep again.

I would give the stars,
their distant promises, their cold fire,
just to say what I should have said every day:
I love you.
I miss you.
You were my sun, my endless summer.

But the world takes what it will,
and leaves only echoes.
So I sit here in the ruins of myself,
writing your name on the wind,
letting my love rise like smoke,
like a prayer you might still hear.

What I would give,
my darling,
is everything—
for just one more moment,
one more chance
to tell you
you were always enough.

Sharp winter branches,
blue-black bruises pierce the lake,
stillness cuts the air.

The footsteps fall — then fade away —
As silence holds — the breath at bay —
Two hands — in quiet longing — meet,
A tremble — soft — and hearts entreat.

A fever burns — and must be still,
The world outside — they wish to **** —
The rain — it whispers — soft refrain,
Of stories lost — of fear and pain.

The elders' words — like serpents' hiss,
A promise sweet — a bitter kiss —
"Trust me, dear one — for I will save,
Your love — your life — from cruelest grave."

She calms the storm within her mind,
With *****'s balm — a solace blind —
His face is strange — his heart a lie —
But still — she dreams — where no one dies.

The flowers twine — within her hair,
She plays with children unaware —
Of all the rules — the bitter game,
Where whispers wear a nameless shame.

The demons smile — they will not harm,
They cleanse with beads — with prayer's calm charm —
"Forget your name, and curse the night,
The dawn will lift you into light."

But Death — a shadow — cold and near,
Sweeps in — and leaves no room for fear —
The dust — the warmth — no more to chase,
A fleeting dream — an empty place.

It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.

Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.

Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.

They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.

We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.

The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.

This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.

Life in plastic folds,
Dreams wrapped tight in fleeting hope,
Trash cradles the soul.