Solena ♡ my heart beats faster every time I read one of your posts. You name things that don’t often come to light… and in such a devastatingly tender way.
I am learning though; for people like us: the silent sufferers, it might be time to suffer a bit more loudly. (Radical I know 😮 )
Name a thing and don’t give it context. No apologizing for feeling heavy. 🤷♀️ I don’t know if this is where you were going with this when you wrote it but it’s what I see in you- in me ♡
Emmetta… I don’t have words polished enough for this kind of seeing.
You didn’t just read it—you recognized something I didn’t name out loud. Maybe we’ve both been suffering too silently, but gods… what if we made grief an artform instead of an apology? You said: “name a thing without context.” So here’s mine: I still sleep like I’m bracing for impact.
Thank you for finding me in the dark and calling it light.
There’s something sacred in being seen by someone who also writes through the wreckage. Many of your words feel like an echo. So familiar, haunting, & honest. Thank you for offering your truth so bravely. I’ve written for years, but am only beginning to have the strength to share!
hearing this back from you like it was already part of your own story?? That’s why I write. That’s why I stay. You didn’t just read it—you claimed it. And in doing that, you made it stronger. Thank you for honoring it, and me, and the ache we share.
Thank you for letting me know this one landed deep. I wrote it in the early hours when everything hurt too quietly to scream. Knowing it resonated means the ache wasn’t wasted. 🤍
“The war doesn’t pause just because the sun came up” — thank you for spotlighting that line. I think it’s something we all live, even when we can’t name it. I’m honored my words met you there. Let’s keep writing through it, even when the light lies to us.
“ say rest is radical but this isn’t rest—this is disappearancethis is scrolling until 3 a.m.then staring at the ceilingas if it owes me somethingfor surviving another day”
Scrolling at 3am like the ceiling is a confessional. Yeah. You felt the marrow of this. Your quote-back hit like holy echo. Thank you for understanding the exact ache I stitched between the lines. You’re not alone either.
Every line pulls a nail from the coffin, every picture brings a real, survivable future. I remember a bed with a frame like a coffin, I remember if I stayed I would die, at great cost I left, I lived, I live still. Your poem is amazing. 🌞🧡
“Every line pulls a nail from the coffin…” Mike. What a visceral, sacred response. The way you mirrored the pain back with survival stitched into every syllable—I feel seen by your words, truly. Thank you for honoring it with such depth.
You aren’t the only one. And you’re exactly the person this was written for. Quiet pain deserves poems too. Thank you for standing in this one with me.
That line—“as if it owes me something”—was one of those truths I didn’t even want to admit to myself. Thank you for letting it resonate without shame. I see you.
Solena ♡ my heart beats faster every time I read one of your posts. You name things that don’t often come to light… and in such a devastatingly tender way.
I am learning though; for people like us: the silent sufferers, it might be time to suffer a bit more loudly. (Radical I know 😮 )
Name a thing and don’t give it context. No apologizing for feeling heavy. 🤷♀️ I don’t know if this is where you were going with this when you wrote it but it’s what I see in you- in me ♡
Emmetta… I don’t have words polished enough for this kind of seeing.
You didn’t just read it—you recognized something I didn’t name out loud. Maybe we’ve both been suffering too silently, but gods… what if we made grief an artform instead of an apology? You said: “name a thing without context.” So here’s mine: I still sleep like I’m bracing for impact.
Thank you for finding me in the dark and calling it light.
I see you in me too. ♡
This resonates so much, beautifully written.
Coming from you that means everything. We write through rubble, don’t we? Thank you for reading this with such reverence.
There’s something sacred in being seen by someone who also writes through the wreckage. Many of your words feel like an echo. So familiar, haunting, & honest. Thank you for offering your truth so bravely. I’ve written for years, but am only beginning to have the strength to share!
this gave me chills—thank you for sharing that with me.
there is something sacred about being seen by someone else who’s crawled through the wreckage with a pen in their hand.
if my words felt like an echo, it’s because your truth already lives in the same room.
i’m so honored you’re here—and even more honored that you’re finding the strength to share.
we write alone, but we heal together.
i’m cheering for every word you’re brave enough to let out. 💛
this describes me more than I care to admit
>>>⚜
this bed is a coffin sometimes
but I keep getting out of it—
and that has to mean something.
hearing this back from you like it was already part of your own story?? That’s why I write. That’s why I stay. You didn’t just read it—you claimed it. And in doing that, you made it stronger. Thank you for honoring it, and me, and the ache we share.
beautifully written! needed this today
I’m so glad it reached you when it did. Writing these things costs something—but replies like yours give it back tenfold.
You put into words what so many of us feel. Thank you for sharing something so raw and vulnerable.
Thank you for letting me know this one landed deep. I wrote it in the early hours when everything hurt too quietly to scream. Knowing it resonated means the ache wasn’t wasted. 🤍
Totally agree
“the war doesn’t pause
just because the sun came up”
Oh my, what a line! Your words are just beautiful! Keep writing, fellow writer!
“The war doesn’t pause just because the sun came up” — thank you for spotlighting that line. I think it’s something we all live, even when we can’t name it. I’m honored my words met you there. Let’s keep writing through it, even when the light lies to us.
I felt this:
“ say rest is radical but this isn’t rest—this is disappearancethis is scrolling until 3 a.m.then staring at the ceilingas if it owes me somethingfor surviving another day”
thank you for sharing, Solena.
Scrolling at 3am like the ceiling is a confessional. Yeah. You felt the marrow of this. Your quote-back hit like holy echo. Thank you for understanding the exact ache I stitched between the lines. You’re not alone either.
I appreciate that Solena.
Every line pulls a nail from the coffin, every picture brings a real, survivable future. I remember a bed with a frame like a coffin, I remember if I stayed I would die, at great cost I left, I lived, I live still. Your poem is amazing. 🌞🧡
“Every line pulls a nail from the coffin…” Mike. What a visceral, sacred response. The way you mirrored the pain back with survival stitched into every syllable—I feel seen by your words, truly. Thank you for honoring it with such depth.
Thank you for this 🖤
I needed to read a piece like this and know I'm not the only one.
You aren’t the only one. And you’re exactly the person this was written for. Quiet pain deserves poems too. Thank you for standing in this one with me.
“Staring at the ceiling as if it owes me something for surviving another day” is all too relatable. Beautiful beautiful piece!
That line—“as if it owes me something”—was one of those truths I didn’t even want to admit to myself. Thank you for letting it resonate without shame. I see you.