How Do You Fix a Hole?
The ache is wide. The wound still sings—
filled with silence that bites and stings.
No bandage holds. No balm will stay.
The void just hums—and takes away.
Trees fall loud in forests bare,
with no one near to touch or care.
My mind—a train with no arrival—
derails, then climbs toward revival.
The fire learns to kiss my skin,
a dance that stirs the storm within.
I swallow pain—or it swallows me—
a beast unchained, fierce and free.
Who I was burns to the floor.
Ashes rise. Ashes beg for more.
I sift for peace through smoke and stone—
and plant what's left. I grow alone.
ᝰ
- 𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓓𝓸 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓕𝓲𝔁 𝓪 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓮?
Author's Note
𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹, 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.
𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝒻 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝒻𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓈𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽—𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒.
𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌.
This poem came from a place of emptiness—the kind that doesn't shout but lingers like smoke in the lungs. It's about the pain that loops, a loss that devours, and the small, stubborn hope that something can grow where something else once broke.
If you've ever felt like you're clawing your way through silence, know:
You're not alone in the ache.
You're not alone in the growing.
ᝰ
YOU ARE READING
the words I kept
Poetry"𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓱..." these are the feelings I carried with me, thoughts I held back, scars I hid, and all the words I kept; my friend and my foe. Warning: some may be triggering, dis...
