SHE FORGOT SHE WAS A POEM(unit she wrote )

 There was a time I forgot I was softness wrapped in ink —

a stanza stitched with silence,

a metaphor the world never learned to read.

She wasn’t always like this.

Quiet in a loud world.

Trying to be prose when her heart beat in rhythm.

She used to know herself in whispers,

in rainy windows and  skies above garden ,

in room's corners and the smell of old pages.

But somewhere between growing up and growing quiet...

She forgot.

She forgot that softness wasn’t weakness.

That her voice didn’t have to echo to be heard.

That poems don’t always rhyme — but they still matter.

✏️ A memory:

I remember sitting in class once,at rainy day  

Scribbling  about the loniness which crafted my childhood 

And this girl wrote her first words 

What if I was too much — or worse, not enough?

So I wrote a poem in the margin of my notebook instead.

I didn’t say it out loud. But my heart did.

And maybe… that was enough.

Now, through every word I write, I’m remembering.

I remember that healing looks like unfinished stanzas.

That grief can sound like repetition.

That joy might arrive as a single, perfect line.

This blog?

This space?

It’s me writing myself back into existence —

one rainy, lavender-soaked poem at a time.

💌 A Poem I Wrote for Her (aka Me)

You are not too soft.

You are the softness that survived.

The stanza that stayed whole

when the story tried to erase you.

🌿 And if this sounds like you too...

If you 've ever wondered whether your quite heart still counts-

If you used to be a poem but lost the lines along the way 

Come sit beside me

We"ll trace words back together