WOUNDED THINGS BECOME LANGUAGE
I no longer argue with the night.
It arrives anyway.
With its tired shoes,
its unfinished conversations,
its memories that sit on the edge of my bed
like unpaid rent.
Some days
I wear silence so well
people mistake it for strength.
But even oceans make noise
when they are breaking.
I have learnt
that survival is an ugly flower —
it grows through concrete,
through abandonment,
through mouths that only speak your name
when they need something warm.
Still,
I wake up.
Still,
I fold my pain into neat little poems
and leave them on the internet
for strangers to call “beautiful.”
Maybe that is art.
Or maybe
it is proof
that even wounded things
can become language.
And if you listen carefully,
you will hear it —
the soft rebellion of a girl
refusing to disappear.
I