My written words become a bleeding of truth disguised as art.
I let the pen bleed because my soul demands transfusion; healing comes in droplets of ink, not tears.
See, I don’t always speak my truths aloud.
Instead, I scatter them between metaphors and half-finished sentences, letting only those who truly read between the lines find me.
Writing is how I hide and how I’m found.
It is how I release everything I once swore to hold onto, catching peace in the very act of letting go.
So, allow this book to say what I won’t say out loud.
And maybe—just maybe—after you read it, you’ll find your own outlet.
Because some of us don’t write for applause.
We write to survive what we never learned how to say.