The Door: When Poetry Becomes a Way Out
Leaving Hell Without Cruelty
Thank you to the poem I once wrote
while my hands were trembling,
and my heart was trying to forgive
what should never have been survived.
You were cold
because I was freezing.
You were silent
because I was exhausted.
You spoke of the past
because the present was too painful to stay in.
You helped me realize
that love had already left the room
long before me.
And while I was still trying to stay
for the children, for promises, out of fear,
you were already teaching me
how to leave hell without becoming cruel.
I left.
I broke what was breaking me.
Three years later,
I write with warmer hands.
I no longer beg words to love me.
Love now stays.
Love now protects.
Love now chooses me.
Thank you, my first poem.
You were not the end.
You were the door.
And I walked through it.
About the Creator
Magma Star
Geologist and poet, author of 5 poetry collections.
π Read my stories in 3 languages (EN/FR/HR) on my blog: MagmaStar.com
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