Jiaa Writes

They say the heart is just an organ. But for someone like me, it’s a diary— bleeding ink instead of blood, telling stories that only silence understands. I once gave my heart away. Not with grand gestures, not with flowers or fireworks— but with small things. With laughter at midnight, with texts that said “home” instead of “hi,” with eyes that didn’t need words. It was love. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission. The kind that turns quiet girls into loud poems. But love has a strange way of teaching poets how to bleed beautifully. It left without warning— no explanations, no proper goodbyes. And suddenly, the heart I once offered with trust became a cage of echoes. I broke. Not loudly. Not in front of anyone. But quietly, like a poem that never found its last line. And yet— that’s when the writing began. When pain became paper, and tears turned into titles. My heartbreak carved verses where once I had only feelings. People say heartbreak destroys. But I think it reveals. It shows y...