I don’t write to
impress.
I write to undress —
layer by layer,
mask by mask.
Each word strips another lie
I once called survival.
Ink runs deeper than blood now;
it tells me who I’ve been hiding from.
Every line,
a confession I never planned to make.
Every silence,
a truth learning how to breathe.
I don’t write to be read.
I write to be real —
to meet myself
without the costume.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC
I don’t write to
impress.
I write to undress —
layer by layer,
mask by mask.
Each word strips another lie
I once called survival.
Ink runs deeper than blood now;
it tells me who I’ve been hiding from.
Every line,
a confession I never planned to make.
Every silence,
a truth learning how to breathe.
I don’t write to be read.
I write to be real —
to meet myself
without the costume.
A poem about writing as self-excavation.
Every verse is a small act of remembering who I was before the masks learned my name.
Not artifice, just honesty — the only place I still meet myself without apology.
