the words I kept

𝓣𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒐

Who are you?

My reflection asks—

and the answer is

a quiet storm that basks.

Complex in stillness,

in silence, in choice—

more thunderous 

than they will voice.

I dream to scream,

unravel fury borrowed,

scatter winds—

truth rasps, not hallowed.

But what would they think of me?

Would they see

the depth beneath my cries,

the history coiled,

the silent ties?

The storm that brews

within my breath—

would they judge the jagged scars,

or honour my depth?

Would they understand

the wreckage beautiful,

the chaos' poetry—

pain made soulful?

In twilight hush,

where shadows confide,

I hear cruel whispers—

brands they hide.

But I stand firm—

ancient mountain's spine—

bearing weighty words,

a burden mine.

No more, I say,

in stars' soft light—

a woman's worth

won't break in night.

On peaks where winds

softly relent,

my voice echoes

through valleys, unbent.