I’m often scared of my own words.

Not because they lie—
but because they don’t.

They come out sharp,
come out raw,
come out knowing more than I do.

They don’t ask if I’m ready.
They don’t wait for courage.

They just land—
like truth always does.
Heavy.
Unapologetic.
Mine.

I’ve written things I wish I hadn’t.
Not because they were wrong,
but because they were right
in ways I wasn’t ready to admit.

And still—
I keep writing.
Because silence is worse.
Because if I don’t speak it,
it’ll rot inside me.

So I write scared.
I write shaking.
I write like the page is the only place
that doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth.