She Wrote Poems Instead of Crying

She Wrote Poems Instead of Crying

She never liked crying.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t cry—she could. She had, once or twice, when she was younger. But the tears always made her feel hollow afterward, as if the pain had drained out of her eyes and left nothing but silence.

So instead, she wrote.

At first, it was messy. Scribbles in margins. Half-formed lines in school notebooks. Rhymes that didn’t quite work. But with every heartbreak, every goodbye, every day she felt like screaming but didn’t—her pen moved.

And what came out was more than just ink.

It was truth.

Her First Real Poem

She was thirteen the first time she wrote a poem she never wanted anyone to read.

Her best friend had moved away without warning—just a phone call, a last wave through a rainy car window, and then nothing.

No goodbye gift. No final sleepover. Just silence.

That night, she sat in her room, listening to the rain, and started writing

She didn’t know what it was at first. It had no title. No structure. Just:

“I didn’t know goodbyes could sound like engines.”

“Or that silence could be shaped like a person.”

She folded the paper into a book and hid it in her pillowcase.

Poems for the People She Couldn’t Talk To

As the years passed, her poetry grew.

She wrote poems instead of texting exes. Instead of apologizing to people who had hurt her. Instead of standing in front of graves trying to say the right thing.

When her father left without a note, she wrote ten stanzas in a row.

When her heart broke at seventeen, she wrote until sunrise.

Each page was a battlefield. Each verse, a quiet scream.

She had journals full of things she could never say out loud. But on the page, she wasn’t afraid.

She was fierce. And honest. And whole.

The Notebook That Changed Everything

In college, someone found one of her poems.

She had left her notebook in a café by accident—something she’d never done before. Panic gripped her when she realized. Her soul was in those pages.

But when she returned, the notebook was still there.

And inside it was a note:

“Your words saved me today. I hope you keep writing. The world needs this kind of truth.”

– A stranger

She cried that night—not because she was sad, but because someone had finally seen her.

And for the first time, the tears felt okay.

Publishing Her Pain

Years later, she self-published a small poetry book titled Instead of Crying.

She expected maybe a few friends to read it.

But it grew.

Messages poured in.

From heartbroken teenagers. From single mothers. From veterans. From people grieving, healing, breaking, rebuilding.

They all said the same thing:

“You wrote what I couldn’t say.”

She had found her people.

Or maybe—her poetry had helped people find themselves.

She Still Doesn’t Cry Often

Even now, she still doesn’t cry often.

But when life aches—when it burns or bends or breaks her—she doesn’t hide.

She sits with the pain.

Listens.

And then she picks up a pen and writes:

“I stitched this wound with words.”

“I bled poems until the pain stopped speaking.”

“This is how I survived.”

Because for her, writing isn’t a coping mechanism.

It’s a language. A lifeline. A mirror.

A rebellion against silence.

She doesn’t cry.

She writes.