There was a time when writing was impossible for me.
I’d pick up the pen, open the notebook, read what I’d written before,
search for the right page to pour out all my thoughts,
write the first word… and then stop.

There I’d stay, staring at the paper,
black ink running down my fingers,
a lagoon turning into a river
as the heavy minutes
of a meaningless life drifted before my eyes.

I tapped the canvas with the tip of my brush,
hoping to awaken something that had fallen asleep—
but nothing happened.

The first word I had written
no longer made any sense.
And in the imposing silence of an empty room,
my frail heart spoke.

It reminded me how sad I am,
how much harm I’ve caused,
the blood it’s spilled
with every blow it took, like a punching bag.
And then, it began to sing.

It sang of how much it longed to love
and how impossible that was.
It sang of its darkest desires
and how it never found anyone to speak of them.
It sang the mournful tune of an eternal loneliness.
And without warning,
it broke through the box of bones that protected it,
tore the tender skin of the chest that sheltered it,
snatched the pen from my hand,
and shredded every remaining page
of an untold story—
with the same force it used
to rip from me even the chance to remember.

Its fury devoured every word
that once existed and felt real,
scattering the ashes of what once was.

Because broken hearts write too—
even in ruins, their pain persists.