Broken Things Can Be Published Too

Ten years ago, the world felt lighter for most people I knew.

They laughed, they danced, they called it one of their best years.

But for me, 2016 was the year my heart cracked open for the first time.

It was the year I learned that exhaustion can carve wisdom,

and dismay can teach you the sharpness of your own words.

I began to write—not just sentences, but the hidden corners of my inner world.

Every heartbreak became ink.

Every silence became a stanza.

That year, I talked too much.

So much that trouble followed me like a shadow.

But maybe that was the point,

to discover that my voice was not meant to be caged.

I gathered myself piece by piece,

and rekindled my love for literature,

for the kind of writing that saves you when nothing else can.

In 2016, I stood trembling at a spoken word open mic in my university.

I let my voice spill into the room,

and for the first time, strangers clapped for the story I carried.

By January 2017, my poem found its way into the school paper,

proof that even broken things can be published,

that even fragile voices can be heard.

A lot happened that year,

mostly heartbreaking ones, yes.

But 2016 was also the year I realized:

pain can be a teacher,

words can be a weapon,

and poetry can be a home.

-E.