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.

To Know My Own Truth

If Cosmos is God,
then yes — God made us.
But not from outside.
We are the breath it took
to hear itself exist.