Diary

I never learned the rules
about meter or metaphor,
or what not to say out loud.

I just write what lives inside me:
the bruises, the blossoms,
the damage, the dawn,
and echoes of thunder
kept quiet too long.

A diary with line breaks —
that’s all this is.
Unpolished,
unapologetic.
Pages smeared with yesterday,
inked with aches of becoming.

Sometimes words stumble,
sometimes they bleed,
sometimes they hunger
like a hymn I never sang
but always knew.

I never cared
for pretty lies or perfect poems.
I scribble joy in crooked margins,
fold sorrow into paper birds,
let them fly across the page.

This is how I stay alive —
by telling the truth
exactly how it hurts
and how it heals.

Sometimes it's enough.