Trapped in my own head

apology

I opened the pages
and they opened me.

Old ink bled again-
happiness that laughed freely,
sadness that didn't know how to whisper,
anger brave enough to be named.

Every line was a heartbeat
I once trusted the page with.

And I ask myself now,
when did I stop feeling loudly?
When did emotions turn into boxes
I stacked carefully inside my chest?

I used to write to survive,
to breathe,
to make sense of the noise.
Now I survive by silence,
by pretending nothing is heavy.

I wish I hadn't read those poems-
not because they hurt,
but because they remind me
of a girl who felt everything
and still stood upright.

She deserved softness.
She deserved rest.

If I could,
I'd fold her into my arms,
tell her she wasn't weak for feeling,
and that I'm sorry
I learned how to bury what she bravely bled onto paper.

But maybe-
maybe reading her words
is the first crack
in the wall I built.

And maybe she's still here,
waiting for me
to feel again.