I write,
not to remember,
but to hold on to the fragments
of a past that never lets go.

The ink spills,
a dark river,
draining into the paper,
painting the demons in full color.
They dance in the corners of my mind,
silent,
but loud enough to echo
in every word,
every syllable,
as if they want me to surrender.

But I won’t.
Not today.
Not in this space.

I lean into the shadows,
but I don’t let them pull me under.
I use them,
familiar faces,
unforgiven scars,
ghosts I can almost touch.
I let them circle,
dancing dangerously close
to the edge of my sanity,
but I don’t let them hold me.

I write because I need to see them.
Not to glorify the ache,
not to make it beautiful,
but to acknowledge it—
to say,
“I know you’re there,
but you won’t control me.”

In this twisted ritual,
I channel the darkness,
put it on paper,
where it can stay,
where it can’t crawl back inside me
and make my heart bleed again.

I dance the line,
between facing the past
and losing myself in it.
I stare down the abyss,
knowing it can’t swallow me
if I keep my feet moving,
if I keep writing.

So I write.
Because sometimes,
the only way to survive the storm
is to let it rain.