I didn’t write this for the healed.  
I wrote this for the haunted—  
for those who stare at ceiling cracks  
like they’re reading scripture  
from a collapsed cathedral.  

These pages aren’t a map to recovery.  
They’re the wreckage.  
The bloodstains.  
The echo where a name used to fit.

Each poem a pulse.  
Each line a fragment.  
Not a solution—  
but proof the soul still bleeds in shape.

So if you're holding this,  
you’re not alone in the ruin.  
Welcome.  
Take off your armor.  
We only write in exposed nerves here.