The Day She Disappeared

I write for the days I said nothing.

For the nights the silence screamed louder than any voice could.

For the girl who hid beneath the weight of it all

and called it strength.

For the memories that burned

but never spoke,

for the bruises you couldn’t see,

and the versions of me

that still flinch when touched by kindness.

I write to feel real again.

To gather the parts of me scattered in the dark

unspoken,

unheard,

unhealed.

Not for applause,

but for air.

For the sound of my own voice

unfolding,

finally unafraid

to exist.

To remember the girl

who smiled to survive

but never felt safe,

who mistook pain for love

and silence for peace,

and called her own emptiness “normal.”

This isn’t poetry.

This is excavation.

This is me,

digging up every buried scream

and turning it into light.

Because no one taught me

how to scream without being punished.

So I learned to bleed through metaphors,

to whisper through rhythm,

to rise through lines

when I couldn’t rise in life.

This voice

it’s a rebuild.

It’s a reckoning.

It’s a home

I’m still learning to live in.

Every word is a return.

Every verse,

a refusal to stay gone.

And if you see yourself in these ruins

know this:

you’re not alone in the ache.

And you’re not broken beyond repair.

This

this is not art.

This is survival dressed in syllables.

This is grief learning how to move.

This is pain

finally allowed to speak.

And I will not silence it anymore.

Not for comfort.

Not for shame.

Not even for peace.

I will tell my truth

until my scars stop hiding.

Until my softness feels safe.

Until the girl who disappeared

feels welcome

in her own name.

I’ll keep writing

not because I have to,

but because I can.

Because I stayed.

Because I’m still here.

And I am becoming

louder,

softer,

and more whole

than they ever imagined.

—   Grace