Blood to Ink

I used to disappear in quiet ways,

leave pieces of myself in hidden places,

where no one asked

and no one knew

how heavy silence grew.

There were nights that held me still,

like the world had lost its will,

and I was left inside my skin

with everything I couldn’t hold within.

I learned the language of unseen pain,

how it lingers, how it stains,

how it whispers soft and slow

the things you never let show.

I used to reach for something sharp,

not out of hate, but to restart,

to feel a break inside the numb,

to prove that I was still someone.

But time… it doesn’t heal, it shifts,

it leaves you standing in the rift

between who you were

and who you begin—

and somewhere there…

I chose the pen.

I bleed on paper

instead of skin

and that is how

I breathe again

I’m still fighting

still me

all my scars

still poetry

I bleed into rhythm

instead of silence within

and that is how

I breathe again.

Now my hands don’t reach to harm,

they hold the weight, they hold the storm,

and every word I lay down slow

is something softer than before.

Not healed—

but here,

and learning how to stay,

turning what once took me under

into something that can…

carry me away.