I opened my heart with both hands,

bare and trembling like new wings,

and offered it like a story

to someone I thought would listen.

But laughter came first.

Then silence.

And a blade wrapped in words I didn’t see coming.

“No one cares,” he said.

And my world—so carefully built—

shivered in my chest like it might collapse.

I tried to pretend I wasn’t bleeding.

Tried to smile through the bruise.

Tried to believe it didn’t matter.

But it did.

God, it did.

Because these stories I carry

aren’t just words.

They’re home.

They’re memory.

They’re the only places I’ve ever felt fully seen.

So I curled inward,

not because I gave up—

but because my heart needed a softer place

than the one it just fell in.

And tonight, in the stillness,

when no one is watching,

I let the ache become a poem.

I let the tears fall without shame.

I let myself remember—

I am not made of glass.

I am made of stars and spirit and survival.

And even when it hurts—

I still love.

I still dream.

I still write.

Even when it hurts,

I’m still me.