I write stories in my mind—
illusions spun to keep the darkness
in my head at bay.
Stories of victory,
of rising,
of finally seeing.

I write poems that shred my soul,
words spilling raw from the wound.
Each line a whisper
to quiet the screaming child
that still lives in me.

I write songs that bloom with joy,
for others to sing,
to make me feel whole
if only for a moment.
Songs to hold the depression
just outside the door.

I write the words my heart exhales—
laced with pain
and bitter delight.
Each one a scream
disguised as verse,
so I can cry
without making a sound.