Poem: Unwritten

I was shaped by silent scripts,
Buried deep in blood and lips—
Echoes passed from hand to hand,
Written in a language I didn’t understand.

Told who to be before I breathed,
Taught to dim, to serve, to leave
The sacred parts I came here with—
To trade the truth for masks and myth.

But the soul is not so quick to die,
It hides in dreams, in tears, in sky—
In aching hearts and quiet pain,
It waits to rise, again, again.

And one day, with a trembling hand,
I turned to face what I’d outrun—
The shadows not to be destroyed,
But held, and seen, and met with voice.

I walked into the fire within,
Not to burn, but to begin.
To pull the thorns from memory’s bed,
And make a home inside my head.

I found my fears were fractured light,
Each one craving to be right—
Not erased, but understood,
The dark was never not the good.

Now I shed the scripts I wore,
Step barefoot through the inner door.
No longer built to just survive—
I am remembering I’m alive.

I am not this cage of scars,
I am the breath beneath the stars.
Not what they wrote, but what I feel—
The self they buried, now I heal.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie Fluharty