She wants to be a poet again

 Oh, she remembered—

She wants to be a poet again,

to pull threads from the fog

and weave them into something

She could touch,

Something that wouldn’t unravel

When he spoke.

Oh, she remembered—

She wants to be a poet again,

to let the silence bend and break

under the weight of her own voice,

to carve lines into the stillness

that once held her captive.

For years, she lived

In a house with no corners,

only circles,

where her thoughts turned

and turned

and turned back into silence.

His voice was a distant bell,

not loud,

but constant,

a sound that blurred the edges

of who she once was.

She learned to disappear slowly—

In the creak of the floorboards,

In the way the air hung still

when she walked a room.

Even her reflection

looked away,

unsure of the lines

that defined her.

But now the pen feels heavy,

Its weight is unfamiliar,

Like a tool she forgot

How to hold.

The words spill unevenly,

jagged,

like light through cracked glass,

casting shadows that move

When she doesn’t.

The poems aren’t answers—

They are rooms without doors,

windows flung open to the wind

that carries only questions.

They scatter like ash across the floor,

Trace the shape of something

that might never have been whole,

and still—

They hum with the heat

of what refuses to die.

Oh, she remembered—

She wants to be a poet again.