SPILLED IN INK AND GRACE

Photo by Yannick Pulver on Unsplash.

I didn’t scream—I wrote instead,

With trembling hands and thoughts I bled.

Each page a place to set it down,

The grief, the ache, the thorn-tipped crown.

I spilled the silence, line by line,

The parts I’d buried deep in time.

The echoes, sharp, began to fade

As ink and grace made light from shade.

No need for armor, sword, or flame—

Just paper soft enough to name

The things I feared, the things I knew,

And all the pain I once walked through.

My healing didn’t come with noise,

But in the hush between my voice—

The breath I took, the prayer I gave,

The self I learned at last to save.

Some wounds don’t ask to be erased,

They’re simply spilled

in ink

and grace.