I have become an expert in the archaeology of heartbreak,
I sift through the dust of last week’s sheets,
find a single black thread from your sweater and crazy enough I didn’t throw it away,
I winded it around my finger until the circulation stops because the numbness is a familiar kind of feeling.
They tell you that grief is a river, you just have to go through it But they don't tell you about the tide,
They don't tell you that some days you are a strong swimmer cutting through the current with clean efficient strokes,
And other days you are just driftwood,
Waterlogged, Spinning ,Quietly falling apart in the middle of the grocery store,
because the oranges are the same shade as the sunset we once watched from fire escape.
It’s in the details, you see.
The small, stupid, savage details.
The way the world keeps spinning its cruel, cheerful circle.
The barista still asks, “How’s your day?”
The sun still rises like a golden, indifferent alarm clock.
The planet rotates on its axis,
a perfect, uncaring machine,
while I am here, learning to be a planet myself,
Learning to hold my own gravity,
Learning to spin without you.
Because that’s the second act, isn’t it?
The one they don’t write songs about,
It’s not the fury. It’s not the tears,
It’s the morning you wake up and
the first thing in your head is not his name, but the smell of coffee, It’s the terrifying, quiet, radical act of continuing.
It’s the moment you catch yourself.
You are falling, yes. The ground has given way. The air is rushing past,
And in that free fall you stop looking for a hand to hold.
You stop waiting for a voice to tell you it’s okay,
You look down through the blur of clouds and the ache of altitude and you see… you have wings Not feathers, not flight, Just a furious,
hard-won knowledge that you were built to survive the impact.
So let the world keep its cheerful, stupid circle.
I am building a new orbit.
I am the archaeologist of my own becoming now And I am no longer sifting through dust,
I am excavating bedrock.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 7:22 AM UTC
I WISH FOR BACKFIRE.
I wish Rumors, Manipulations,Discrimination
Bullies, Body shaming,... and all other disrespectful
Unkind, Unthoughtful and disgusting behaviours
were BACKFIRE
I WISH FOR THE MIRROR’S DEBT
I wish the words they threw to bruise, Would turn around and find their source. I wish the rumors they let loose, Would double back with twice the force.
For every throne built on a sigh, Or laughter born of someone’s tears, I wish the mask of every lie Would crumble through the passing years.
I wish the shame they tried to give, Would find its home within their chest, Until they learn the way to live, With kindness as their only guest.
I WISH FOR THE BOOMERANG
I wish that every heavy stone Of cold disdain and bitter thought, Would find a way, through paths unknown, To show the sender what they brought.
I wish that discrimination’s vine Would tangle up the hands that sow, Until they see the grand design: That what we give is what we grow.
I wish the walls they built for spite, To shut the "different" ones away, Would trap them in the lonely light, Until their heart learns how to pray.
I WISH FOR THE WEIGHT TO SHIFT
I wish that bullies felt the weight Of every soul they tried to thin, That every word of body-hate Reflected back upon their skin.
I wish manipulation’s thread, Which pulls the strings of honest men, Would weave a net for them instead, Until they find their truth again.
I wish the world would tilt its scale, Until the unkind learn to see, That every time they make one fail, They lose their own humanity.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 5:26 AM UTC