The Girl in My Head - A Poetry Series

Letters To No One #22

“There’s a little girl in my head and she screams ‘unloved! unloved! unloved!’ every moment of my life.”
- anonymous

There’s something haunting about the pain that lingers long after the event. The kind of ache that doesn’t bruise the body, but lives in the psyche, where no one else can see it. This poetry series came from that place. From that girl. The one who lives in my head. The one who still wants to be held.

This is a conversation between the child I was and the woman I’ve become. Between the past that shaped me and the voice I’m learning to reclaim.

This is not a linear journey. There is no neat little healing arc.
But there is truth, and tenderness.
And for the first time in a long time there is listening.

I: The First Cry, Her Voice, My Echo

There’s a little girl in my head
with ribbon wrapped wrists
and dirt stained knees
and she screams.

Unloved! Unloved! Unloved!
like a war cry
or a whisper
depending on the hour.

She bangs her fists against my temples
when someone says,
"You're too much,"
or worse
"You're fine."

She tugs on my hair
in the silence between texts,
when no one asks if I made it home safe,
when I scroll just to feel
less ghost.

She hates the smell of lavender now.
Says it reminds her of all the women
I tried to become
to feel worthy of soft things.

I ask her to be quiet,
but she just folds her arms,
stares at me like I’ve betrayed
something sacred.

“I’m only loud
because you forgot
how to listen.”

II: I Became a Quiet Thing

I learned to swallow whole
what should have been spat out,
grief, guilt, desire,
the need to be chosen.

I let lovers call me gentle
when really I was just fading.
They said, “You’re so easy to love.”
But they never stayed.

I curled myself
into the shape of an apology,
hoping someone would
unfold me, say,
“You’re allowed to take up space.”

She screamed every time
I said "I’m fine."
She broke her voice
on my silences.

I thought if I could love perfectly,
the screaming would stop.
But perfection
was just another name
for disappearing.

III: She Writes Letters to No One

Dear You,
(the one who forgot me)

You never packed my favourite dress.
You left me behind
in a house that didn’t hug back.

I drew pictures in the dust on the floor
so I wouldn’t forget my own hands.
I talked to shadows.
They never left me.

Sometimes I’d pretend
you were coming back.
That someone would walk in
and call me “darling” like it meant something.
Like I wasn’t just
a burden with scraped knees.

They told me to be quiet.
That good girls don’t cry so loud.
But I wasn't trying to be good.
I was trying not to drown.

I write these letters
because you don’t look at me.
Not really.
You just look through me
with tired eyes and perfect eyeliner
and lips that say “I’m over it.”
You're not.
You just learned how to lie
in prettier ways.
- From the girl you used to be
and still are.

IV: When I Became My Own Mother

I held her like a secret.
Curled small in the bathtub
while the water cooled around my shame.

I wrapped her in softness.
Washed her hair
with the care no one gave me.
I told her she didn’t need
to earn gentleness.
She just needed to be.

It was strange,
loving the thing I once hated.
That voice, that need.
Her never ending ache.

I used to run from her.
Now I braid her hair.
Tell her bedtime stories
where she doesn’t die waiting.

I fed her honey and fruit
and let her spill it on the floor.
No punishment.
No silence.

When I touched my own skin
and whispered, “You’re safe now,”
I think she believed me
-for the first time.

V. Some Nights, She Sleeps

Some nights,
she crawls into bed beside me.
Still small,
still needing.
But softer now.

She doesn’t scream anymore.
Not like before.
She hums.
Hums songs I forgot I knew.
Braids daisies into my thoughts.

We talk.
She asks if I still love
the wrong people.
I nod.
She doesn’t scold me.
She just stays.

And when I cry,
she wipes my tears
like I’m the child now.
Like we’re taking turns
being the broken one.

Healing isn’t forgetting.
It’s remembering
and choosing to stay
anyway.

I tell her,
I see you now.
And she replies,
That’s all I ever wanted.

---

Final note to readers:

If you have a girl like this in your head, I hope you listen.
Not to silence her. But to hold her.
Let her speak. Let her ache.
Then, if she’s willing,
let her sleep.

Let me know in the comments if she lives in you too.
And if she ever stops screaming.

With softness,
artisticpursuitsofher ♡