You love me
how the moon loves the tides.
I am all pull and retreat,
a chaos of salt and longing.
You remain constant as the shore,
letting me ruin you
again and again,
never once raising a wall
against my inevitable leaving.
What strange creatures we are—
you, solid as faith,
me, forever dissolving
at my own edges.
#shortpoetry
how the moon loves the tides.
I am all pull and retreat,
a chaos of salt and longing.
You remain constant as the shore,
letting me ruin you
again and again,
never once raising a wall
against my inevitable leaving.
What strange creatures we are—
you, solid as faith,
me, forever dissolving
at my own edges.
#shortpoetry
You recognize these careful cuts:
The way they gifted you your doubts,
how every "No, don't, stay right here."
became the bars you learned to fear.
Oh, the ache of being shaped—
each "for your own good" a landscape
of could-have-beens
and phantom wings
and all the songs
you choked to sing.
You see it in the mirror's glare:
The ghost of who was almost there.
You feel it when the sky looks bright—
that old, familiar fright.
And when you try to speak your mind,
their voices loop like twisted vines:
"Who are you to want the sun?
After all that we've done?"
But here's the wound they can't erase:
That anger warming up your veins.
That hunger sharp behind your teeth.
That name you whisper underneath.
It isn't pretty. Isn't kind.
But oh—
it's yours.
This time.
#shortpoetry
The way they gifted you your doubts,
how every "No, don't, stay right here."
became the bars you learned to fear.
Oh, the ache of being shaped—
each "for your own good" a landscape
of could-have-beens
and phantom wings
and all the songs
you choked to sing.
You see it in the mirror's glare:
The ghost of who was almost there.
You feel it when the sky looks bright—
that old, familiar fright.
And when you try to speak your mind,
their voices loop like twisted vines:
"Who are you to want the sun?
After all that we've done?"
But here's the wound they can't erase:
That anger warming up your veins.
That hunger sharp behind your teeth.
That name you whisper underneath.
It isn't pretty. Isn't kind.
But oh—
it's yours.
This time.
#shortpoetry
They found you rooted in thunder,
your branches braided with lightning,
your sap singing hymns
only storms could translate.
So they came with silver shears
and mouths full of 'almosts'—
"Almost perfect, almost right,
almost safe if you’d just—"
snip.
#scribble
your branches braided with lightning,
your sap singing hymns
only storms could translate.
So they came with silver shears
and mouths full of 'almosts'—
"Almost perfect, almost right,
almost safe if you’d just—"
snip.
#scribble
A Museum of Broken Promises;
I curate my failures
in glass cases—
the vows I couldn’t keep,
the hands I let slip away,
the love letters
I wrote but never sent.
You walk through the exhibits,
pause at each display,
and whisper to the shadows:
"We have time yet
to make new ones."
#OC
I curate my failures
in glass cases—
the vows I couldn’t keep,
the hands I let slip away,
the love letters
I wrote but never sent.
You walk through the exhibits,
pause at each display,
and whisper to the shadows:
"We have time yet
to make new ones."
#OC
I miss the girl who tripped on sidewalks,
who laughed with her whole mouth.
They buried her
under six feet of "potential"
and planted roses that never bloom.
#scribble
who laughed with her whole mouth.
They buried her
under six feet of "potential"
and planted roses that never bloom.
#scribble
I wore 'flawless'
like a funeral dress;
stitched too tight,
black as a starless sky,
beautiful in a way
that makes children whisper,
"A witch."
#scribble
like a funeral dress;
stitched too tight,
black as a starless sky,
beautiful in a way
that makes children whisper,
"A witch."
#scribble
She bottled every storm in her veins
and sold them as perfume—
"Eau de Apocalypse,"
worn best by women
who smile while drowning.
#OC
and sold them as perfume—
"Eau de Apocalypse,"
worn best by women
who smile while drowning.
#OC
Perfection
is a taxidermied prayer,
all the right words,
stuffed and still,
glass eyes reflecting a god
who stopped listening.
#random
is a taxidermied prayer,
all the right words,
stuffed and still,
glass eyes reflecting a god
who stopped listening.
#random
I keep subtracting myself
from every equation—
always erasing my traces
from the walls,
one less kiss goodnight,
one more step back,
the slow erosion of a heart
trying to disappear
before it can be left.
#scribble
from every equation—
always erasing my traces
from the walls,
one less kiss goodnight,
one more step back,
the slow erosion of a heart
trying to disappear
before it can be left.
#scribble
Grief does not wear a suit.
It is not polished shoes
or folded handkerchiefs.
It is the raw, red silence
between the priest’s words,
the way your knees forgot how to stand
when the earth took what it was owed.
#draft
It is not polished shoes
or folded handkerchiefs.
It is the raw, red silence
between the priest’s words,
the way your knees forgot how to stand
when the earth took what it was owed.
#draft
I leave my letters unsent,
my tea half-drunk,
my heart a door left ajar—
not enough to let you in,
not enough to tell you to leave.
You linger in the threshold,
a silhouette against the dawn,
waiting for a sign
I am too terrified to give.
#draft
my tea half-drunk,
my heart a door left ajar—
not enough to let you in,
not enough to tell you to leave.
You linger in the threshold,
a silhouette against the dawn,
waiting for a sign
I am too terrified to give.
#draft
I am tired of metaphors.
I am tired of making my pain beautiful.
I want to scream in a language
that doesn’t sound like poetry.
I want to be ugly.
I want to be honest.
#scribble
I am tired of making my pain beautiful.
I want to scream in a language
that doesn’t sound like poetry.
I want to be ugly.
I want to be honest.
#scribble
I have tried to write you something soft,
but the page bled through
where my fingers shook;
ink becoming accusation,
doubts becoming contempt,
longing bleeding into betrayal,
and the confession of love
turns to the burning question of,
"Why me?
Why would you do this to me?"
#scribble
but the page bled through
where my fingers shook;
ink becoming accusation,
doubts becoming contempt,
longing bleeding into betrayal,
and the confession of love
turns to the burning question of,
"Why me?
Why would you do this to me?"
#scribble
I'm not a poet.
I'm a wound that bleeds ink.
These words are
the wretched shadow of a sob,
a cry that never left my lungs.
#draft
I'm a wound that bleeds ink.
These words are
the wretched shadow of a sob,
a cry that never left my lungs.
#draft
I catch my mother staring sometimes,
her eyes tracing the hollows
where my cheeks have given up.
She doesn't recognize
my emaciated frame,
ashen face,
or my brittle voice.
She doesn’t recognize the thing
that’s wearing her daughter’s face.
Neither do I.
#OC
her eyes tracing the hollows
where my cheeks have given up.
She doesn't recognize
my emaciated frame,
ashen face,
or my brittle voice.
She doesn’t recognize the thing
that’s wearing her daughter’s face.
Neither do I.
#OC