To the nights where the only thing I did was jot down angry words on a poor notebook that hadn't seen it coming
To the days where it felt like my voice was caught in my chest, so instead, I wrote.
To the afternoons spent exhaling and inhaling so deeply I thought I might never stop those breathing exercises
To poetry, for getting me through all of those times.
and to beautiful words, with their ability to string together all of the thoughts I was unable to say out loud
for without them, I could not be who i am. I could not be who i yearned to become