Ode to my Letter
I wrote a letter to myself , hoping the ink would ease the weight. It wasn’t working. I tuned my pen and poured out the raw, unspoken ache, but the words told me to wait. They carried a deeper meaning, quiet and unrelenting: At first words thundered like drums in my ears , relentless, echoing every wound I’d held near. Then they softened, gentle as a stream , slipping beneath my fears in my dreams, absorbing the poison I couldn’t release. The paper stared back, unflinching and plain, mirroring the fractures I tried to contain. I swallowed the fire that burned in my chest, unclenched the fist that clung to the rest, and learned—slowly, painfully—that healing begins not in the strike, but the silence within , where the real war rages unseen. And in time the stream carried the sorrow away. leaving only a quiet, a fragile, peace. That whispered to me.