I gather my pieces
from the places I broke.
Some wounds became maps,
others—poems
etched in the quiet of midnight.

I am a collection
of departures and arrivals,
each scar a word,
each word a small return
to myself.

If you read these lines,
may you find your own journey
in the spaces I left open—
a reminder that even when we’re lost,
we are st

I walk unwritten roads,
no map, just memory
guiding each quiet step.

The past is a suitcase
I carry half-open,
old letters, faded photographs,
things I still cannot leave behind.

But I keep moving—
toward mornings I haven’t met,
toward versions of myself
still unnamed.

Sometimes hope feels distant,
other times, it flickers softly
like a light at the end of a hallway.

If you’re reading this,
perhaps you too are walking
roads that aren’t on any map.

May you find, as I have,
the courage to keep going,
to travel softly, bravely,
and call each small arrival
a kind of home.

I have learned
to celebrate in silence—
the gentle rising
from another sleepless night,
the soft forgiveness
I offer myself at dawn.

No parade marks
the morning I choose to hope,
no spotlight warms
the way I mend old wounds.

But somewhere between
persistence and peace,
I find a quiet victory—
unseen, but wholly mine.