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They say pressure makes diamonds.  
Fine.  

But here’s my truth:  
My peace was forged under  
every ******* ounce
of what came before.
A little excerpt from something I’m working on today.
Hey,
I read what you wrote.
And I want you to know—
Every word you sent out…
they weren’t just paragraphs.
They were proof that you were alive.
That even in your hardest moments, you still chose to feel.
And that’s something brave people do.

I know it might not have felt like it at the time.
Maybe you thought you were being too much,
too vulnerable,
too open.

But can I tell you something?
There’s nothing “too much” about being human.

You wrote when you loved.
You wrote when you were breaking.
You wrote when you had nothing else left but your own honesty.
And that’s not weakness.
That’s how you kept yourself from fading out completely.

So thank you.
For every message you sent into the void.
For every “I’m trying”
and even every “I give up.”
Because every single one was you choosing expression over silence.

And now?
Now you’re here.
Still breathing.
Still writing.
Still surviving in your own quiet, relentless way.

One day, you’ll look back and see—
those paragraphs weren’t cries for help.
They were stepping stones.
Each one taking you closer to the version of you who’s healed,
who’s glowing,
who made it.

And when you get there—
you’ll read those words again,
not with regret,
but with pride.

Because even when life didn’t hold you gently,
you still held onto yourself.

That’s not weakness.
That’s strength.
And it’s still with you.
Even now.

So don’t stop writing.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if no one replies.

Because sometimes… the most important person who needs to hear you
is you.
No regrets…
about the paragraphs I sent.

I’ve long accepted that not every sentence lands gently.
Some come off too bare.
Others, far too heavy.
But I still let them go—
Maybe because I needed to hear them myself.

Each paragraph was a pause between heartbeats.
Each one…
a letter I refused to leave unwritten.

There were long texts—
some confessed I was in love.
Some whispered I’m hurt.
Others begged for clarity—
even knowing it might never come.
Some said, “I’m still trying.”
Others… “I’m giving up.”
Even when it tore something in me.

But I kept writing.
Because even silence deserves something to speak to.

Those words weren’t always meant for replies.
They weren’t written for validation.
Sometimes…
they were just a lifeline to myself.
A way to hold on
when everything else was falling apart.

And no,
I don’t regret a single one.
Because in a world where so much remains unsaid,
those paragraphs—
they were my way of healing.
My way of screaming without making a sound.
My way of remembering that I felt something.
That I tried.
That I didn’t shut down completely.

So no...
No regrets about the paragraphs I sent.
They saved me more than anyone ever will know.
(A Monologue for Healing & Closure)
Why do you cry?
Because I’m so sick of not being okay.

So sick of my loss of appetite.
My constant need for pain.
Why can’t I be happy?
Wholly and unconditionally. Must there always be a load, weighing me down?
Where’s the balloon?
That I can tie to my wrist and let pull me away?
Why must life be so full of death?
So many questions.
So many answers that continue to allude me.
So I look to the sky.
To the stars.
And….
Dream.
Of a day when someone will ask me.

Why do you cry?
And I can answer,
Because I’m finally okay.
She’s learning to trust herself—
her intuition, her body, her voice.
She’s starting to listen
instead of silence.

Her boundaries are clearer.
She may say no more often
or walk away.

She’s not afraid of her emotions,
even if they’re painful.
She feels them fully
instead of stuffing them down or lashing out.

She’s softening and strengthening at once.
There’s more compassion,
but also more firmness.

She lets herself rest—
not just physically,
but mentally and emotionally.

She doesn’t chase love.
She receives it,
especially from herself.

She sheds old skins—
guilt, shame, roles
that were never hers.
She lets them fall off her,
little by little.

Her joy returns in pieces—
a laugh,
a creative spark,
and moments of peace.
She treasures them.

It doesn’t always look graceful.
Sometimes it’s messy, angry, quiet, or chaotic.
But healing is not about appearance.
It’s about being real.
She walks on toes, in silence dressed,

As if her presence is a guest.

Years of echoes, sharp and rough-

Too loud, too soft, not good enough.

Too much, too little-constant doubt,

That made her want to phase right out.



Compliments land like drops on stone,

They touch but never claim her bone.

“You’re strong, your kind, you shine so bright”-

But her own voice dims all that light.

“They don’t know you”, it softly sighs,

“The fear you mask, the truth you hide.”



She second-guesses every sound-

Each word returns, a ghost abound,

Haunting her in nightmare’s hush,

When the world has lost its rush.



Still-she's learning, step by step,

Through every wound she’s ever kept.

To trust the view that others see-

Not brokenness, but bravery.



Not the girl once coldly told

Her worth was something bought or sold,

A maybe, shifting, not quite real-

Just based on how she made them feel.



But the woman who still wakes each day,

Who shows up, even when afraid.

Who loves with scars the world can see,

And dares to think; “I might be me.”



Perhaps her pride does not yet roar,

But hums beneath her, evermore.

A steady thrum, a whispered song,

That tells her she’s been strong all along.



Her pride may not yet roar or rise,

But hums beneath-her quiet prize.

A steady thrum, a whispered song,

That says she’s been strong all along.





She's not quite there-but still she tries,

And wipes the doubt out from her eyes.

And sometimes, in the mirrors gleam,

She catches glimpses of the dream.



The woman others swear is true-

And in that flash, believes it too.
She was born where the walls would tremble and sway,

Where love came in shouting, then drifted away.

Where silence could cut like a whispering blade,

And kindness was rare as the warmth of May.



Her mother drank storms and let them cascade

On young, aching shoulders, alone and afraid.

She never asked thunder to fall from the skies,

But still bore the weight under tear-salted eyes.



She learned that trust is a word carved out in stone-

Left out in the rain, eroded, alone.

She gave hers to hands that vowed to stay,

But they shattered her trust and then walked away.



At thirteen, her world didn’t fully fall down,

But something inside her refused to be found.

She stopped seeking mirrors, stopped seeking sound,

Felt sure that no soul would hear if she drowned.



Bur deep in the dark, she found ink and a page-

A space to release her quietest rage.

She wrote to survive, let sorrow flow,

To dream of a world where kind hands would grow.



word upon word, she built from the pain,

A self, made of fire, of hope, of the rain.

She grew-not just older-but fiercely and right,

A warrior shaped in the absence of light.



Now she’s a mother, a woman, a flame,

Who shields her own from sorrow and shame.

She listens, she holds, she stands strong and true,

Becoming the love, she never once knew.



The past still whispers, but cannot command;

It doesn’t define her, it doesn’t stand.

She writes-not to flee, but to chart the climb,

Each line a reminder: she rose every time.



She tells the girl hidden deep in her mind,

“We made it, we lived, we rose, and we shined.

The monsters are silent-they don’t get the end.

We write the last word, with strength as our pen.”
I met my 12-year-old self for coffee
to talk about our lives

"I hate the world and my family
no one listens or helps
everyone hurts me
I'm trapped here
and I self harm everyday
my emotions are treated as manipulations
I feel so alone
I think about dying on the daily
please help me" they said

"please believe that there is hope
you have a new family
and a loving one at that
suicide is not something we think about anymore
we've been clean from self harm for over 130 days
we made more friends
we don't get bullied
or abused
life is worth living
and we strive to be better and heal every day" I said
it’s hard
not to feel
withdrawn

when the ones
you love

have crossed
to the other
side.

they’re
never gone,

but it feels
so wrong—

like a song
out of tempo,
out of place.

and you know
nothing can
bring them back,

but still
you do your best
to stay strong.

because life
never stops,

and the ones
you’ve lost

are never
gone.
inspired by mayday parade’s “happy endings are stories that haven’t ended yet.”

written in memory of my mom—gone in body, never in spirit.

this is for anyone trying to carry love through the silence.
The loss of one

splits the heart in two.

And through that crack,

the others slip too.
This poem reflects how the deepest heartbreak doesn’t always come in waves, sometimes it begins with one great fracture, and everything else quietly unravels from there. It’s about how grief can dull our senses, making future losses feel distant or invisible.
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