The gift in their eyes.
Sometimes strangers hold you tighter
than the hands you thought would stay,
sometimes comfort comes from voices
you were never meant to know by name.
And yes, it stings ,it always does ,
when love shows up where blood goes thin,
but there’s healing in being heard,
even if they don’t know where you’ve been.
They say, “You have a gift , stop,”
“Your words brought tears I couldn’t fight,”
“I love this, please keep writing,”
“I can’t wait to read your life.”
Words I’d never heard before,
not because they weren’t true ,
but because my voice was only used
when it served someone else’s view.
They saw my fire, felt my depth,
knew how bright my words could grow,
but instead of tending to the flame,
they taught me shame instead of hope.
Nothing I wrote was ever mine,
every truth was torn apart,
so I learned to fold my feelings small
and bury them deep in my heart.
But I’m older now, I won’t be quiet,
I won’t hide what lives in me,
I can’t keep carrying this weight
and calling it peace.
So to the strangers who stopped and stayed,
who read my pain line by line ,
know this: you are more appreciated
than you’ll ever realize.
You could’ve scrolled, you could’ve slid away,
but something made you remain,
and because you did, I keep creating
meaning out of pain.
When I write, I think of you ,
the ones who saw me from afar,
the strangers who believed in me
more than those who knew my scars.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 12:41 PM UTC
The gift in their eyes.
Sometimes strangers hold you tighter
than the hands you thought would stay,
sometimes comfort comes from voices
you were never meant to know by name.
And yes, it stings ,it always does ,
when love shows up where blood goes thin,
but there’s healing in being heard,
even if they don’t know where you’ve been.
They say, “You have a gift , stop,”
“Your words brought tears I couldn’t fight,”
“I love this, please keep writing,”
“I can’t wait to read your life.”
Words I’d never heard before,
not because they weren’t true ,
but because my voice was only used
when it served someone else’s view.
They saw my fire, felt my depth,
knew how bright my words could grow,
but instead of tending to the flame,
they taught me shame instead of hope.
Nothing I wrote was ever mine,
every truth was torn apart,
so I learned to fold my feelings small
and bury them deep in my heart.
But I’m older now, I won’t be quiet,
I won’t hide what lives in me,
I can’t keep carrying this weight
and calling it peace.
So to the strangers who stopped and stayed,
who read my pain line by line ,
know this: you are more appreciated
than you’ll ever realize.
You could’ve scrolled, you could’ve slid away,
but something made you remain,
and because you did, I keep creating
meaning out of pain.
When I write, I think of you ,
the ones who saw me from afar,
the strangers who believed in me
more than those who knew my scars.