What I Meant to Say
It all begins with an idea.
What I meant to say
was:
you hurt me.
What I actually said
was:
it’s okay.
I’ve been
translating pain
into politeness
my whole life.
No more.
Rewritten In silence
“You were never a chapter
you were the ink.
But even ink runs dry.”
I don’t write about you anymore
not out of peace,
but preservation.
Some names
begin to rot
if spoken too often.
I’ve buried yours
beneath metaphors and
half-meant endings,
hoping no reader would guess
you were once the whole story.
You were never a chapter
you were the ink.
But even ink runs dry.
And now I write in pencil,
so I can erase
the echoes of you
before they stain the page.
Because healing
isn’t about forgetting.
It’s about
rewriting.
And this time,
I am the hand
holding the pen.