Words written in the dark

I told the moon everything

you were too afraid to hear.

She held it all

without flinching.

And when morning came

I was still here.

That is what healing looks like —

not absence of pain

but the stubborn insistence on staying.

I chose rest

and called it radical.

I chose softness

and called it strength.

They said hustle.

I said heal.

They said grind.

I said grow.

My revolution

wears silk.

It reads by candlelight.

It refuses to be broken.

Nobody told me

I was allowed to be tender.

So I taught myself

in the quiet.

In the space between

strength and survival,

I found something softer —

a girl who deserved gentleness

more than she deserved to be strong.

I still write letters

to the version of you

I invented.

She was so beautiful.

I stopped rewriting people

in my head to make them

easier to love.

Now I write myself letters instead.

They always write back.

Some wounds don't bleed

but they still ache.

Like the space between

where your name used to live

and where silence moved in.

I've been renovating.

It takes longer than they said.

I am in the messy middle.

Not who I was.

Not yet who I'm becoming.

But somewhere in this becoming

I am learning to love

the in-between.

The unfinished draft.

The half-healed wound.

The girl still figuring it out.

I've been in rooms full of people

and felt the specific loneliness

of being misunderstood.

So I built a room

out of words.

You found it.

That means you understand something

most people don't.

At 3AM I am most myself.

No performance.

No armor.

Just the thoughts

I'm not brave enough to think

in daylight.

The questions without answers.

The love without a home.

The girl who is still

so much more

than what happened to her.

I am made of

ink stains and intentions.

Of songs that saved me

and silence that shaped me.

Of every book I've ever read

and every feeling I've survived.

I am the sum of

all the things

that tried to break me.

And I am still here.

Writing.