I used to swallow my feelings like fire—burning, blistering, but quiet. I used to tuck my pain into polite smiles and “I’m fines,” trying to be the version of me that wouldn’t upset the room.
But not anymore.
Now I’m saying it. All of it.
Every fucking emotion I ever felt—
The nights I cried and no one knew.
The rage that sat in my chest like a war drum.
The heartbreak that taught me how to breathe through shards.
The joy I dimmed so I wouldn’t seem “too much.”
The guilt, the grief, the hope, the hunger, the holy hell, I survived it kind of strength.
I’m not hiding it anymore. I’m not softening the edges of my truth just to be palatable. I am not here to be easy to digest. I’m here to be real.
This is what rising looks like. It’s not clean. It’s not perfect. But it’s honest.
I don’t need to be “liked.” I need to be heard.
And this? This is my voice, raw and roaring.
I will write until my wounds become wings.
And I will feel—every fucking thing—until I am free.