Healed Just Enough to Document the Damage

I didn’t begin this blog with poetry in mind.

I began it with profit in mind — as a money mule.
Just another side project.
I’ve made plenty of those: little digital detours sparked by interests too flimsy to last.
Most of them I forgot by morning.

But this one…
This one refused to be forgotten.

This blog became a graveyard and a greenhouse.
A place where the dead parts of me could rest.
And where new things could grow.

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I’ve since started two series.

The first — a select number of poems —
reflections on the life I’ve lived.
Fragments of who I was,
who I became,
and who I am still becoming.
They are tender, aching, and real.

The second series is sharper.
Darker.
More dangerous.

It is the volume of men who ripped into me.
Men whose touches left tears.
Whose words became wounds.
Each entry is a ledger of pain.
Each one a warning sign to my future self.

I write them not for revenge —
but for remembrance.
So that when the next man comes smiling,
I’ll remember the red flags behind the grin.
I’ll recognize the pattern.
And behave accordingly.

I’ve seen it all:
Married men.
Cheaters.
Hypocrites hiding behind God’s name.
Men who wanted my purity,
but not my personhood.

And now I write them down.
Not just for me.
But for every sister who’s ever wept into her pillow.
For every woman who’s ever been left with shame
she didn’t earn.
May my words reach her before the damage does.

Because I believe in ashes.
And I believe in women who rise from them.

Together, we can build something holy from the ruins.