My Pen

My pen is my therapy. The only way my soul breathes. She knows the sound of silence when my voice is too tired to speak. She’s the one who holds my “good morning” like a prayer I hope the seducing goodness of sleep carried you gently, and I hope you opened your eyes to the kiss of the sun. I write it soft, even when my heart feels hard. My pen cleanses what my swollen chest can’t hold anymore. She listens when I say “I’m tired” on pages that come out too full. Too heavy. Too much. But no one really hears it. Not all the way. Because it’s too deep — too deep for anyone to understand. So I pour. Ink like blood. Lines like longing. Poems like oxygen. I don’t always want answers. Just somewhere to lay my ache. And when no one stays long enough to listen, my pen stays. She always stays.