The Me I Hid- She Poem by Saritha Ayyath Madhusudanan

She...
She was a gentle soul — a saint in her own quiet way,
A tender woman who never wished to trouble a single heart,
A silent stream of kindness, always choosing peace over pride, patience over pain.
She...
She was a broken one — a shattered dreamer,
Her own hopes scattered like autumn leaves in the wind,
Yet she lived smiling, not for herself,
But to ease the lives of others.
A girl who gave light, while her own lamp flickered.
She...
She was a madwoman — not wild, but wounded.
Unloved, unclaimed, unseen by the world,
Aching for the warmth of a single touch,
A single word wrapped in love.
A madness born not of chaos,
but of yearning.
She... Who was she?
She was me.
The unwritten tear in my poems,
The silence in your glances,
The sorrow I never dared to voice.
She was the story I scribbled in the shadows,
Never meant to be read aloud.
She... was me.
Saritha Ayyath