Healing isn’t pretty. It’s not soft light and gentle revelations—it’s jagged edges, sleepless nights, and breaking in new ways long after you thought you’d already fallen apart. Healing asks for honesty so sharp it can draw blood.

These are the words I write when I can’t hold it in anymore. The ones that shake loose the pieces I’ve carried too long. Some are whispers. Some are screams. All of them are mine.

I write them here because hiding has never saved me. I’ve worn silence like armor, but it only ever kept the wounds fresh. So now, I let the words live in the open.

This is not my shame. It never was. The weight, the guilt, the quiet—those belong elsewhere. I’m setting them down, one dark word at a time.