No Character, Just Me

I don’t want to write
to impress anyone.

I want to write
like breathing.

Like something that leaves me
without asking permission.

There are parts of me
that don’t speak in conversations.

They wait
until midnight,
until the room is quiet,
until the world stops demanding strength.

Then they whisper.

Not about heartbreak.
Not about loss.

Just about being human.

About how strange it is
that we carry entire universes inside us
and still say
“I’m fine.”

About how we miss people
even when we chose to walk away.

About how we grow,
but sometimes look back
just to check
if the old version of us
is still standing there.

I don’t write to be deep.

I write because
some feelings refuse
to stay silent.

Because sometimes
a memory knocks softly
and I have to open the door.

Because sometimes
I don’t understand myself
until I see it
in words.

If my poetry feels real,
it’s because it is.

There is no character.
No mask.

Just a heart
trying to make sense
of its own echo.

And maybe
if you see yourself in it,

it’s because
we are not that different.

We are all
just souls
learning how to exist
without losing
what makes us soft.