Poetry is the room where strangers become mirrors.

You read someone's confession and find your

Own face staring back. How did they know

To say the exact thing you couldn't?

They didn't. They said their truth,

And you recognized yourself in it—

Which is not the same as them knowing you,

But close enough to feel like love.

Close enough to feel like being seen.

This is the paradox: a poem

Is most true when it's most particular,

When the poet writes only for themselves

And somehow speaks to thousands.

Your wounds and theirs wear different names

But speak the same language underneath.

Poetry doesn't bridge that gap.

It is the gap—the space between

What was written and what you needed,

Where meaning happens.

Where you become visible to yourself.