a girl and her pen

29.03.25

i think about it sometimes—what’s behind that door. the one i don’t open, the one i pretend isn’t there. if i ever let myself turn the handle, i know what i’d find.

dust-covered versions of me, the ones i left behind but never truly let go of. the girl who thought if she was kind enough, soft enough, easy enough to love, people would stay. if she smiled just right, if she cared just enough—not too much, not too little—she would be safe. but some saw that and took it as permission to take more. to take everything. and sadly she let them…

there are words in there too. words i never said. the things i wanted to scream but swallowed instead. the apologies i never got, the ones i never gave. they sit in the air like ghosts, heavy and waiting.

and then there’s her. the one with no real face, just reflections of the people around her. she never knew who she was, so she borrowed—mimicked, adapted, blended in. tried on different versions of herself like costumes, hoping one would feel right.

none ever did.

and in the darkest corner, there is something else. something breathing. something chained in barbed wire, its wrists raw from pulling against it. she does not cry, she does not beg. she waits. watches. smiles like she knows a secret i don’t.

and then there’s the quiet. the kind that presses against your chest, the kind that knows your name. it smells like old books and rain-soaked earth, like something once cherished but forgotten. like loss. like longing.

maybe one day i’ll go inside. sit with it. touch the things i’ve locked away. but not today. today, i keep the door closed. for now.