The Hidden Journal

I used to write for beauty.
To make pain sound elegant,
to dress my honesty in metaphors
so no one would know where it came from.

───

But lately, I crave the kind of truth
that doesn’t need to be pretty.
The kind that stands barefoot on the page
and still feels enough.

───

These are my naked words.
The ones I used to whisper only in the dark,
the ones that sound too close to confession.
They aren’t polished.
They shake a little.
But they’re mine.

───

I’m learning that vulnerability isn’t weakness —
it’s the place where I finally meet myself.
Every time I stop hiding behind sentences,
I find a softer strength waiting underneath.

───

I don’t write to be admired anymore.
I write to be known —
even if only by the woman I’m still becoming.

— Desiree