[05] 《 Dear Elijah 》
Verse 05
I’ll press my palms
to where it bleeds,
and taste the salt
of all you need.
Not fixing, no—
just staying near,
your wounds my home,
your tremors dear.
#draft #DearElijah
Verse 05
I’ll press my palms
to where it bleeds,
and taste the salt
of all you need.
Not fixing, no—
just staying near,
your wounds my home,
your tremors dear.
#draft #DearElijah
Why does your voice not splinter when you say, "no"?
Mine fractures into a hundred shards,
each one cutting the roof of my mouth
on its way out.
Do you oil yours with honey?
Or has it always known its own weight?
#random
Mine fractures into a hundred shards,
each one cutting the roof of my mouth
on its way out.
Do you oil yours with honey?
Or has it always known its own weight?
#random
Somewhere under the wreckage of mirrors,
beneath the landfill of discarded skin,
there’s a girl who still knows how to blush.
She’s small as a sparrow’s heartbeat,
but she’s there.
I press my ear to the earth of myself,
listen for her.
She’s singing something that isn’t a dirge.
She’s planting dandelions in the cracks.
Wait—
Wait.
Maybe the dandelions are weeds.
Maybe they’re the only thing
strong enough to split me open
and let the light in.
#HID
beneath the landfill of discarded skin,
there’s a girl who still knows how to blush.
She’s small as a sparrow’s heartbeat,
but she’s there.
I press my ear to the earth of myself,
listen for her.
She’s singing something that isn’t a dirge.
She’s planting dandelions in the cracks.
Wait—
Wait.
Maybe the dandelions are weeds.
Maybe they’re the only thing
strong enough to split me open
and let the light in.
#HID
Your sorrow sits upon my lips,
a weight I carry sip by sip.
I kiss the air where words have died,
the space between
your breath and pride.
You tremble like a storm-held tree,
your roots all wound too tight in me.
I brush the tears you won’t let fall—
each one a world,
each world a wall.
If love could lift what time has bent,
I’d kiss the dusk till morning lent
its gold to all your shadowed places,
the cracks where light
still chases traces.
But here we are—your hand in mine,
two silent clocks outticking time.
I’ll kiss the hours from your skin,
and hold the ache they leave within.
#love
a weight I carry sip by sip.
I kiss the air where words have died,
the space between
your breath and pride.
You tremble like a storm-held tree,
your roots all wound too tight in me.
I brush the tears you won’t let fall—
each one a world,
each world a wall.
If love could lift what time has bent,
I’d kiss the dusk till morning lent
its gold to all your shadowed places,
the cracks where light
still chases traces.
But here we are—your hand in mine,
two silent clocks outticking time.
I’ll kiss the hours from your skin,
and hold the ache they leave within.
#love
My therapist says 'trauma'
like it’s a thing to unpack,
not the shrapnel I keep rearranging
in my chest to make a home for.
You say 'stay'
like I haven’t already
burrowed under my own ribs
with a knife for a key.
#draft
like it’s a thing to unpack,
not the shrapnel I keep rearranging
in my chest to make a home for.
You say 'stay'
like I haven’t already
burrowed under my own ribs
with a knife for a key.
#draft
《 Nyx Thinks 》
To cage a wild thing; First, name it "precious"— soft, like a wound. Then prove how the world is sharp and unkind. Show it your teeth, but call them "pearls," and praise its wings while you clip them first. #lines
So I have been thinking of doing a follow up series for this verse, in an OC kind of pattern? (Short snippets of lines or scenes kind of.)
Or maybe a poetry album?
Do let me know your thoughts and ideas on it.
I would love to hear your suggestion.
Or maybe a poetry album?
Do let me know your thoughts and ideas on it.
I would love to hear your suggestion.
I breathe in,
and the air doesn’t hurt—
it tastes like jasmine and second chances,
like the world has been waiting
while I learned how to stay.
One day I’ll stop flinching at my own name.
One day it’ll sound like a song,
not a sentence.
Today, I hum it anyway.
#HID
and the air doesn’t hurt—
it tastes like jasmine and second chances,
like the world has been waiting
while I learned how to stay.
One day I’ll stop flinching at my own name.
One day it’ll sound like a song,
not a sentence.
Today, I hum it anyway.
#HID
You told me
whispers in my ears,
repeated
like beads of a prayer;
"You are a gifted a child."
__
Now I rot
where I was crowned,
half-alive
in hallowed ground,
watching through
the stained glass glow
all the colors
I cannot know.
It's grey and blue
this world of mine,
purple bruises
branded since nine.
#scribble
whispers in my ears,
repeated
like beads of a prayer;
"You are a gifted a child."
__
Now I rot
where I was crowned,
half-alive
in hallowed ground,
watching through
the stained glass glow
all the colors
I cannot know.
It's grey and blue
this world of mine,
purple bruises
branded since nine.
#scribble
I am the wound
that won’t quite bleed,
the flower choked
by its own seed.
I am the love
you can’t confess—
the art of longing,
nothing less.
And when the dusk
pulls at your chest,
when absence feels
like tenderness,
you’ll drink the dark
and call it sweet—
and love me best
when I’m not me.
#Atuneofbrokenhearts
that won’t quite bleed,
the flower choked
by its own seed.
I am the love
you can’t confess—
the art of longing,
nothing less.
And when the dusk
pulls at your chest,
when absence feels
like tenderness,
you’ll drink the dark
and call it sweet—
and love me best
when I’m not me.
#Atuneofbrokenhearts
Your Eyes Are the Only Poem
I Could Never Write.
Tell me—
when the last shadow falls,
will they still shine
with all our unlived days?
Will they still whisper
'you were my favorite season'
as the light fades?
#love
I Could Never Write.
Tell me—
when the last shadow falls,
will they still shine
with all our unlived days?
Will they still whisper
'you were my favorite season'
as the light fades?
#love
She digs her thumbs into my palms,
trying to press a sunrise
into my clenched fists.
"Look," she says,
"how the light loves you."
But I’ve swallowed too many midnights
to believe in anything but their weight.
#scribble
trying to press a sunrise
into my clenched fists.
"Look," she says,
"how the light loves you."
But I’ve swallowed too many midnights
to believe in anything but their weight.
#scribble
You keep offering your love
like a bandage over a bullet wound.
And I keep letting you,
because watching you try
is the only proof I have left
that I was ever worth the effort.
#OC
like a bandage over a bullet wound.
And I keep letting you,
because watching you try
is the only proof I have left
that I was ever worth the effort.
#OC
One day,
you’ll stop pretending
I’m salvageable.
You’ll fold my clothes into boxes,
wash the last of me from the walls,
and finally understand:
some fires refuse to be prayed out.
#scribble
you’ll stop pretending
I’m salvageable.
You’ll fold my clothes into boxes,
wash the last of me from the walls,
and finally understand:
some fires refuse to be prayed out.
#scribble
Your hands find the hollows
where my courage used to live—
press warmth into the spaces
I’ve let go cold.
I should pull away.
I should let you love someone
who knows how to love back.
Instead, I lean in,
let your heartbeat teach mine
a rhythm it may never
learn to keep.
#love
where my courage used to live—
press warmth into the spaces
I’ve let go cold.
I should pull away.
I should let you love someone
who knows how to love back.
Instead, I lean in,
let your heartbeat teach mine
a rhythm it may never
learn to keep.
#love
When she sings,
the notes stick in my ribs
like fractured wings.
I want to warn her:
'Stop feeding the thing that starves itself.'
But my mouth is full of feathers
and apologies that won’t survive the air.
#OC
the notes stick in my ribs
like fractured wings.
I want to warn her:
'Stop feeding the thing that starves itself.'
But my mouth is full of feathers
and apologies that won’t survive the air.
#OC
If love is a thing learned by touch,
then I am fluent in the language of your gaze—
the way it lingers like a hand on my spine,
the way it shatters like glass
when you’re angry,
the way it finds me in a crowded room
and whispers 'home'.
#scribble
then I am fluent in the language of your gaze—
the way it lingers like a hand on my spine,
the way it shatters like glass
when you’re angry,
the way it finds me in a crowded room
and whispers 'home'.
#scribble
You map my scars like constellations,
trace the routes of my ruin
with pilgrim’s hands.
I want to scream;
This is no holy land.
These borders shift,
these walls crumble,
and every path leads
to the same dead end.
Still you walk them,
whistling like a man
who’s found water
in the desert.
#draft
trace the routes of my ruin
with pilgrim’s hands.
I want to scream;
This is no holy land.
These borders shift,
these walls crumble,
and every path leads
to the same dead end.
Still you walk them,
whistling like a man
who’s found water
in the desert.
#draft