In another world,
far from the ground she walks on,
where voices do not judge
and glances don’t weigh her down,
she breathes without haste,
without fear,
without open wounds throbbing
in the depths of her chest.
There, the streets are made of gentle silence,
the windows don’t shut forever,
and the days don’t drag
under the weight of absence.
A warm breeze touches her face,
as if the very air remembers her.
In that other place,
words aren’t knives
and her body no longer flinches at the sound of shouting.
Memories don’t burn,
don’t bite,
don’t come back to haunt her at night.
They’re only soft echoes,
reflections of a distant past
without power.
In another world,
she walks barefoot among trees
that whisper kind secrets.
Leaves don’t fall in pain,
they fall because it’s time,
because everything there knows its cycle
and no one has to rush to be accepted.
There’s no hurry,
no guilt.
The days have colour,
and the nights offer shelter.
There, she finds herself.
Whole.
Without the masks she was forced to wear,
without the weight of names given to her,
without scars that were never hers.
It’s just her
as it always should have been.
And maybe, in that other world,
she doesn’t need to run.
Maybe, in that secret place within,
she realises safety is not a place,
but a state of soul
this world never knew how to give.
YOU ARE READING
illusions
Poesía"This is where I write down my thoughts and ideas about various topics that pique people's curiosity."
