Hi, I'm someone who had a lot to say but never said any... until now.

I started writing because talking felt impossible. There's something about putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) that makes the mess in my head make sense. Poetry became my way of bleeding out all the things I couldn't say out loud.

I'm not a published author or a literary genius. I'm just someone who's been through some stuff and found that writing about it helps. If my words help even one person feel less alone in their struggle, then every vulnerable line was worth it.

"Ink Stains on an Open Wound" is my attempt at turning my worst moments into something beautiful. It's raw, it's real, and it's probably messier than most poetry collections. But that's life, isn't it?

I'm still figuring things out, still healing, still writing. Maybe you are too.