Ink and Breath by Sabi

He asked me— 

"Why do you write? 

What are you chasing… in the dark?" 

And I paused. 

Pen trembling in my hand 

like a question mark. 

I said, 

"To find myself. 

To discover what's buried beneath the noise." 

He tilted his head— 

eyes soft, puzzled. 

"But… don't you already know who you are?" 

I smiled. 

The kind of smile that's weathered storms 

and still has salt in its teeth. 

"I know many versions of me," I said. 

"But none that feel like home." 

There's the me that smiles while breaking. 

The me that stays silent— 

even when I'm screaming inside. 

The one stitched together 

with scraps of old poems, 

and the one unravelling 

between the lines I write. 

There's the me I see in mirrors, 

and the me that drifts through dreams— 

One you can see. 

One you can feel. 

But neither is whole. 

Each word I write? 

It's a breadcrumb. 

Each line— 

a lantern I light in the fog. 

I'm not writing to be understood. 

I'm writing 

to understand. 

And maybe— 

just maybe— 

somewhere between 

ink and breath… 

I'll meet the self 

I've never met.