No Longer Writing to Bleed

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry nine.

I used to write to survive.
Now I write to become.

Rummaging Through Versions of Me

Voice echoes off these weathered walls,
Dust settles where memory falls.
In that secret corner, I once would hide—
Whispers caught, emotions denied.

Did you become a stranger, stone at heart?
Or has one in me learned that art?

In the cool of night, beneath moon's hue,
I sit in thoughts, a triangle true—
Rummaging through poems left behind,
Letters unsent, and truths confined.

It’s a little strange, reading through old writings.

To see bits of yourself still lingering—familiar shadows you once lived inside—and feel how much you’ve changed. The thought process alone is different now. It’s still me, but with a new clarity.

I can see where I shifted. Not when the pain ended, but when the realization began.

And I’ll admit: I still compare. I know I shouldn’t. But what can I say? It’s a human thing, isn’t it?

What I’ve noticed most is this: Almost all of my old writing was born of pain. All the beautiful colors it came in—all the forms, the griefs, the unravellings. Pain was the root. The fuel.

But now, something has shifted.

My writing doesn’t need to ache to speak. I don’t need to suffer to feel something worthy of a page.

And that’s hard to explain, but I’m trying.

Because now I write from space, from presence, from a soft strength that doesn’t scream.

And even when I look back— I’m no longer afraid of those versions of me. They weren’t broken. They were becoming.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai