I do not write with hands I bleed in languages only silence understands. When my heart swells like a storm wrapped sea, I pour it into paper because paper stays, even when people flee. My scars some whisper, some scream become constellations I trace in ink. They do not heal, but they do hum lullabies when no one else thinks to sing. I speak in letters because voices vanish into bus schedules and unread texts. The world ticks, but never listens. So I write. I write when loneliness wears lipstick and smiles like a liar. When laughter is choreographed and sorrow wears perfume just to fit in. Thoughts sink like pennies in a poisoned well, and no one draws the rope. So I script my mind before it forgets how to float. No fame in these lines. No spotlight. Just a quiet flame, flickering inside where the soul spells its real name. I write not to be found but to follow the footprints of the me I’ve always tried to hear.