The Hall Still Opens

Some days,

the words arrive like rain,

soft enough to bless me,

heavy enough to drown.

Other days,

they sit behind my ribs

with their arms crossed,

refusing to become anything beautiful.

But still,

I come back to the page.

Not because I am always ready.

Not because my heart is always full.

Not because the ache has learned manners.

I come back

because silence has never saved me.

Because even a broken voice

can echo through a quiet hall

and remind someone else

they are not the only one

trying to survive themselves.

So today,

I will leave this here.

A small offering.

A candle in the dark.

A proof of breath.

The poem does not have to be perfect

to be honest.

And I do not have to be whole

to be heard.