I don't write poetry because it's beautiful. I write it because some mornings, the weight of everything I've carried has to go somewhere, and my pen is the only thing that'll hold it.

There are stories inside me that don't belong in polite conversation. Stories about loss. About addiction. About the kind of pain that changes the shape of you from the inside out.

I write traumatic but true stories 📖

Not for shock value.
Not because I want to perform my suffering.

But because someone needs to say it. Someone needs to write down what the world actually does to people when no one's looking, when the facade cracks and what's underneath spills out.

The messy parts. The jagged parts. The parts that don't wrap up neat with some tidy lesson at the end.

Every piece I write is testimony.

Real grief that reshaped me. Real survival I'm still living through. I don't soften the edges because life never softened them for me, and I've learned that when you tell the whole truth... when you don't sand down the splinters... people stop feeling so alone in their own darkness.

They see themselves.

Finally.

That ache we all carry but can't quite name. That thing lodged somewhere between your ribs that won't let go.

That's why I do this 💛 The world is brutal sometimes, and pretending it isn't doesn't help anyone survive it. Someone has to hold up the mirror. Someone has to write down what happened, exactly how it felt.

So I write what broke me.
What I survived.
What still catches me off guard on Tuesday afternoons when a smell or a sound pulls me back to a moment I thought I'd buried.

And I share it because maybe... maybe it helps someone else breathe easier. Maybe they'll know they're not the only one carrying weight they never asked for.

If your pain ever needed a voice → like & share this so someone else knows they're not alone 🕯️