Once, I cursed the ache
that lived beneath my ribs,
a restless ember smoldering,
burning without flame.
I thought it only hollowed me—
a thief in the night
that stripped my voice,
left me trembling in silence.
But pain is a teacher,
brutal and uninvited.
It sharpens the senses,
pulls the veil from the eyes,
makes every shadow visible,
every whisper louder.
It carved caverns in me,
rooms I never wanted,
yet in those hollowed chambers
echoes began to sing.
Songs I could not have written
without the ache of remembering.
Through suffering I learned
the tender map of empathy,
the small tremor in a voice,
the glimmer of fear
in someone else’s eyes.
Because I had been there—
I could see what others hid.
And now,
when I create,
I know the colors more deeply:
crimson of longing,
violet of sorrow,
gold of survival.
The wounds did not ruin me—
they refined me.
The pain I carried
became the proof I lived,
and in its wake
I became sharper,
softer,
truer—
a vessel for beauty
that could only be born
from brokenness.
No comments:
Post a Comment