"I’m Not Okay, But I’ll Write Until I Am"

I’m not okay.

And maybe that’s finally okay to say.

I’ve worn the mask,

the smile that cracked at the edges,

like a porcelain doll no one dares to drop.

I’ve said “I’m fine”

more times than I’ve taken real breaths.

Each syllable a lie I whispered

to keep the world from asking more.

But at night—

when the house creaks and the silence grows teeth,

my truth bleeds

onto paper.

Not in ink.

In pieces.

I write because my chest is too crowded.

Thoughts pacing like wild horses,

memories clawing

like shadows trapped in the walls.

Some poems come soft,

like rain on windows.

Others

tear through me like glass in a storm.

I don’t write for applause.

I write for release.

To name the ghosts,

to give shape to grief.

I write

because saying it out loud would shatter me.

Because every “what if” is louder in my mind

than any lullaby.

Because I loved someone

who didn’t know how to stay.

Because I trusted people

who only wanted pieces of me.

Because loneliness has a language

and I’m slowly learning the dialect.

Some days,

my hands shake too much to hold the pen.

But the page never judges.

The page never leaves.

It lets me scream

in quiet letters.

It lets me cry

without asking why.

I’ve written poems

about love that left bruises.

About fathers who didn’t call.

About friends who forgot me

the moment I needed them most.

I’ve etched verses

for the girl I used to be—

the one who thought her worth

was tied to being strong

and silent.

I’m not okay.

But these words are the thread

that keeps me sewn to this world.

A lifeline of letters,

a map out of the dark.

Sometimes,

I reread old poems

and don’t recognize the pain.

Like it belonged

to a version of me

I’m no longer carrying.

And that,

that is hope.

Maybe healing doesn’t look like a sunrise.

Maybe it’s more like a flickering lamp

that stays on

just long enough

to guide you through one more night.

Maybe “I’m okay”

isn’t a destination—

just a moment

when the ache quiets

long enough to write it down.

So I will write

when I’m falling apart.

I will write

when I’m almost whole.

I will write

because I still can.

And maybe one day,

I’ll read this and smile—

not because the pain is gone,

but because I survived it.

I’m not okay.

But I’m writing.

And that means something.

That means I’m still here.

That means I still believe

there’s a version of me

who will be.