A letter to the small things we cling on to in times of despair.
Dear Bow,
You’re the first thing I reach for
when I start to come undone.
Before the tears, before the silence –
before I even understand
what I’ve done wrong this time.
I tie you slowly,
as if the motion itself could steady me.
I pull the loops tight,
and for a moment,
it feels like I’ve built something beautiful
out of the wreck.
You sit there, soft and certain,
when everything else in me shakes.
People see you and smile.
They say, you look so sweet,
and I want to tell them –
you are the only reason I can walk outside.
You hide the parts I can’t explain,
the panic, the noise,
the way my chest forgets how to breathe
when I think too hard about who I am.
You make me look composed,
even when I’m begging, inside,
for the world to slow down.
I wear you when I ruin things –
when my words come out wrong,
when I disappoint someone again,
when I feel like the smallest person in the room.
You don’t judge me.
You just wait,
patient as a prayer,
until my shaking stops.
But sometimes, Bow,
I wonder if you know what you’re covering.
If you can feel the ache pressed beneath your knot.
You’re made to be pretty –
and I’ve been trying so hard to be the same.
In a world that never noticed I was breaking.
You are my disguise,
my apology,
my fragile kind of hope.
And though you were never meant to carry all this –
you do.
Every single time.
So thank you, Bow,
for making my hurt look harmless,
for giving me something gentle to touch
when I don’t feel gentle at all.
You don’t fix me,
but you help me stay.
Love,
me
