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.

Daughter, Sister, Mother, Aunt.

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