The loveliest poetry bled from my pen
when I had gaping wounds for inkwells.
Each stanza a scar, each verse a vein—
I wrote not with ink, but with agony distilled into grace.

I fell headfirst into cruel, unyielding misery,
not by accident, but by a strange kind of longing.
Because in the marrow of despair,
hope became a stronger opiate—
not a lie, but a lifeline.

I dove into the darkest depths of me,
where light had long since drowned.
And there, in the wreckage,
I discovered beauty in the brokenness—
not despite it, but because of it.

I slipped into a coma of my own design,
a sanctuary of silence where dreams
could live what my body could not endure.
Time blurred. Pain softened.
And I floated through the ache like a ghost
who refused to vanish.

I stretched and bent and bruised my soul
until it frayed at the edges,
until exhaustion became my second skin.
But I did not break.
I survived.

I screamed myself hoarse,
not to escape the pain,
but to invite it in.
I embraced it until it stopped struggling
and hugged me back—
a strange, sacred reconciliation.

And quietly,
gently,
eventually,
I survived.

Not as I was,
but as something forged in fire,
written in blood,
and whispered into existence
by the very wounds that tried to silence me. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer