i write from the places people pretend don’t exist. the parts you swallow. the moments you lie about surviving. poetry found me there — not to save me, but to keep me honest. some of what i share will feel like a bruise you forgot you had. some of it might feel like home. i'm not here to perform healing. i’m here to tell the truth while it’s still breathing. still bleeding. if you’re drawn to the ache between the lines, pull up a chair. if not — no harm done. either way, I’m not hiding anymore. — Shang