I read your poem today—
not just the words, but the ache between them.
You cut your hair,
and somehow the strands fell
like silent echoes of everything you’ve lost.
But I saw more than sorrow in your lines.
I saw a girl
standing in front of a mirror,
eyes red but brave,
wearing grief like a crown
that did not crush her.
You cry,
because you feel deeply—
and that, to me,
is the most courageous kind of strength.
To let the world change you,
and still choose to meet it with softness.
You speak of those you’ve lost,
but do you know what you’ve found?
A voice that bleeds honesty,
a spirit that bends but never breaks,
a beauty that isn't in the hair you lost,
but in the fire you quietly carry.
I may only know you
through verses and distant glances,
but I want you to know—
someone is reading,
someone sees the light
tucked gently beneath your grief,
and believes in the woman
you’re still becoming.
And when you looked in that mirror—
I wish you could have seen
what I saw from afar:
not just a girl who cut her hair,
but one who’s slowly growing wings.
