I did not write this.
I simply sat down,
and something ancient
inside me
began to bloom
in strange syllables.
The poem arrived
like a gale that had
memorized my name.
It wore the scent
of every version of me
I had buried
with shaking hands.
It skinned me open
like I was a letter
never meant to be sealed.
And there,
between the torn folds
of my own silence,
it wrote itself—
not in ink,
but in ache.
Not in grammar,
but in gravity.
And when it was done,
I was no longer who I was.
I had been translated
into something softer,
something whole.
So no—
I did not write the poem.
The poem wrote me.
It found me lost
and left me
spelled
into healing.
