Paper Galaxies

I wrote Paper Galaxies on a day when I didn’t feel seen or heard. Writing helped me remember that even small words can shine if you let them. Every poem I write feels like a star I made myself — proof that I’m still growing, still learning, and still finding my voice in the middle of it all.

Every day, I lose myself —

in songs that say the things I can’t,

in stories that end better than mine,

in movies where the hero always knows what to do.

But lately,

I get lost in my own words.

These tiny patchwork poems,

stitched together from the pieces of my 13 years —

some shiny, some cracked, all real.

I still remember the first time I wrote one.

I didn’t think I could.

Poets felt like grown-ups —

people who already understood life.

I was just a girl with too many thoughts

and nowhere to keep them.

So I started.

Just words — thrown down,

awkward and unsure.

And then someone read them.

They said, “This is amazing.”

My heart raced.

Maybe they were wrong,

but maybe they weren’t.

So I kept writing.

At first, I hid behind big, safe ideas —

ones that could belong to anyone.

But the more I wrote,

the more my words started sounding like me.

Now, when the world gets too heavy,

I spill it onto paper —

the fear, the hope, the confusion.

I press it through my fingertips

and turn it into something that glows.

Maybe my poems won’t change the world.

But they change me.

Because every line I write

feels like a tiny star I made myself.

And when I look up at that galaxy of words,

I finally see where I belong.