For the Twos
who give until they forget they’re worthy too

I show up with open hands

heart stitched into my sleeve

Service etched into my skin

and love folded in every gesture

Don’t even ask

I’m already there

Sensing what you’re not saying

Reading the ache between the lines

I’m the whisper that says,

“You’re not alone”

They call me 2

The Helper

The Giver

But sometimes,

I forget I’m human too.

For the Enneagram Sevens

I am the spark between moments

the laughter lodged in life’s lungs

The high note before the hush

The horizon that keeps moving

They call me

The enthusiast

The visionary

The escape artist

But, beneath the fireworks,

there’s a silent void I’ve learned to dodge.

Blind spot like a back alley mirror

I vanish when pain speaks plainly.

I was taught early

that sorrow overstays its welcome

and joy must be chased before it chokes.

A Poem for the Threes

For the ones who rise to win - but are learning how to just be.

I was born with the sun in my spine,

and the finish line in my lungs.

Breathed in applause before I knew my name.

They called me “gifted,”

so I wrapped my worth in outcomes.

Taught to run fast,

look good,

and never show cracks.

I became performance,

before I became person.

The Achiever.

The Chameleon.

The Best.

A word for the Enneagram Ones
who carry the flame of what should be

I’m the voice that dares to say:

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

They call me One

The Reformer

The Strict Perfectionist

I was born,

with a compass in my chest,

and a courtroom in my head.

Justice is the ache,

not letting me sleep.

Not to judge, or control, or keep.

A spoken word for the Eights
who roar with justice and ache to be held

Don’t mistake my power,

for absence of pain

Nor confuse my fire,

for freedom from fear

I am the wall,

and the wound

The protector,

and the child

still learning what it means

to lay down the sword

without losing the war

They call me Eight.

For the Enneagram Nines

I am the whisper between worlds

The hush before history speaks

The quiet ink in the margins of noise

I am Nine

Mediator

Peacemaker

The sacred stillness you don’t notice

until it’s gone

Don’t confuse my quiet

with absence

I’ve been here

levelling space

bridging gaps

appeasing and pleasing

while pieces of me

drift away like smoke