Amelia James Poetry

Sometimes, the wound becomes a tether—

the aching reminder of a love once vibrant, 

a truth we clung to, a life we built. 

Healing feels like severing that tie, 

sanding down the rough edges of memory 

until it slips from our hands entirely.

The scars whisper: remember, and we listen, 

even when it breaks us. 

Because to let go of the pain 

feels like letting go of what mattered most.

What if the ache is all that remains? 

What if healing means 

forgetting the sound of their laugh, 

the curve of their smile, 

the promises that lingered like smoke in the air after a fire?

To heal is to risk losing even the shards of what was—

so we hold the pain close, 

cradle it like a fragile keepsake, 

convince ourselves that without it 

we’ll forget who we were, 

who they were, 

and how much it all once meant.

But maybe healing doesn’t mean erasing—

maybe it’s finding a way 

to hold the memory 

without letting it crush us. 

Maybe it’s learning 

to keep the love 

without carrying the wound.

-Amelia James