I was born into a famine
that had nothing to do with bread.
Love was rationed in screams or absence,
served in scraps too small to even fill a sparrow.
It folded children into masks,
teaching them to barter their bodies,
their brilliance,
for one spoonful of being seen.
Starvation is generational —
My grandparents wore silence
like a second skin,
their hunger pressed into my parents’ palms
who learned to mistake
approval for affection,
discipline for devotion.
By the time it reached us,
the scarcity became lineage:
my sister and I
daughters of starvation,
gnaw on shadows,
calling it comfort,
rehearsing the same ache —
our bodies learning
to beg in disguises.
Late twenties,
and the fridge hums louder than I do
bones hum with the ache of it,
eyes swollen from begging the air
to answer back.
I peel the silence open with my teeth.
There’s nothing inside.
I am tired of carrying
an empty bowl across centuries.
I will not pass down
a hollow mouth.
May my hands
unlearn famine.
Love will be abundant
in the soil I leave behind.
- V
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:01 AM UTC
I fell asleep today with a terrible case of wishful thinking
and woke with my ribs aching like they remembered something
they weren’t supposed to.
Love stitched the crack in my spine
with thread made of old lullabies and teeth.
It whispered: “Shh. Stay still. This won’t hurt long.”
And I believed it.
Of course I did. I always do.
It kissed my silence like it wanted to own it,
pressed its mouth to the scream I buried in the drywall.
It didn’t ask permission.
It lit a match inside my throat
and waited to see what would burn.
My dreams—
they came barefoot and ******
clutching a map of all the places I left myself behind.
They rubbed balm on my bruises
with hands that looked like mine
but steadier.
They said:
"You were not born to starve on your own sorrow."
But I’d grown so used to the taste,
I didn’t know how to eat without bleeding.
Love swept in like weather—
a hurricane in a soft dress,
a war poem with a soft mouth.
It did not heal me gently.
It cracked my ribs open
and climbed inside,
said “Here. Let me haunt you kindly.”
And I let it.
Of course I did. I always do.
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 5:59 PM UTC
[shadow:]
dear God,
lately,
i’ve forgotten how to be a person.
my hands feel too heavy.
my skin, too loud.
i keep failing at something
no one ever taught me.
my thoughts unravel like cheap thread,
and i keep trying to knot them quietly—
so no one sees the mess.
some days,
i’m just too tired of carrying
a soul that doesn’t sit right inside me.
like it was made for someone else.
– V
---
[light:]
"you keep track of all my sorrows.
you have collected all my tears in your bottle."
— psalm 56:8
"the Lord is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit."
— psalm 34:18
"so do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
— isaiah 41:10
---
[shadow:]
i feel like a ghost,
pretending to deserve
food,
touch,
rest.
i move through the world like background noise.
i hurt when i’m supposed to hope.
and i run when i should reach.
i shrink from love,
because part of me still believes
i have to earn being seen.
– V
---
[light:]
"you are precious and honored in my sight,
and because I love you,
I will give people in exchange for you,
nations in exchange for your life."
— isaiah 43:4
"come to me, all who are weary and burdened,
and I will give you rest."
— matthew 11:28
"even to your old age and gray hairs I am he;
I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you."
— isaiah 46:4
---
[shadow:]
i can’t tell anymore
if the numbness is mercy,
or judgment—
or maybe just You
not knowing what to do with me.
– V
---
[light:]
"before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.
before you were born, I set you apart."
— jeremiah 1:5
---
[shadow:]
i don’t want to perform
my way into being lovable.
i don’t want to be worshiped.
i want to be held.
softly. quietly. without audition.
‘i don’t feel like a person today.’
but i still talked to You
for an hour
on the highway.
and even when i ran out of words—
You stayed.
– V
---
[light:]
"for I am convinced that neither death nor life,
neither angels nor demons,
neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,
neither height nor depth,
nor anything else in all creation,
will be able to separate us
from the love of God
that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."
— romans 8:38–39
"my grace is sufficient for you,
for my power is made perfect in weakness."
— 2 corinthians 12:9
[light whisper:]
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze."
— isaiah 43:2
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 4:02 AM UTC
Honey its been a while but i know you exist between heartbeats — not quite joy not quite grief, just the long inhale before either arrives.
you lived in a house where silence carved the hallways out of not being chosen so i know that you wear sound like an armour,
for when the room goes quiet the ghosts start speaking in full sentances and you are left with no language to bury them.
you answer messages in your head, smile at texts you never send and mourn connections like you've buried them with your own hands — even tho they are still alive
just not with you.
you wage a war between
reach out
and
stay safe.
between
i miss you
and
don't look at me.
you stand still.
mid-sentance
mid-dream
mid-you.
your house is a mess- your head is worse
wondering if this is healing or you are just getting really good at pretending so you bolt the doors
and you don't dare let anyone come in.
your mother used to say that the cruelest is the hour when you must beg the stars to remember your name — you'd then say
that the pain is a fruit, bitten too soon
and yet so sweet, so knowing.
because you know you must remember everything
and overcome it.
for if you don’t overcome it, you will always be the child whose soul never grew, the woman who kept apologizing for needing too little, and loving too much.
Long are overdue the deeds you owe to yourself.
-V
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 1:47 PM UTC
In my dream that I love and hate to recall-
The sky is made of amethyst,
and you’re dancing in a metal kitchen,
laughing, telling me
that God is a handsome blonde guy.
Your last miracle
was making spring come sooner.
And I love you for that.
Memory of the first time I saw your smile,
Now ocasionally sneaks out of my eyes
and rolls down my cheek
I used to trip over our memories,
breaking a bone or three,
but now I just crack open windows,
let the air in,
Finally accepting to live with divorce and sunset.
Your voice notes expired
long before I was ready.
The realization settles first
beneath my lungs,
then crawls up my throat
before sinking into my coffee.
I miss you,
but I won’t ask you to come back anymore.
I finally understand.
Goodbye, my friend.
Be free.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:40 PM UTC
they say
"i don’t get it."
as if the words I write are puzzles
and not seances
with the bones of my childhood.
they want metaphors that purr,
not ones that bleed.
Many don't like
teeth in the fruit.
my poems are not
for mouths that chew politely.
they are for those
who’ve sat inside silence
and still carry
the shape of the scream.
Writing is the equvalent of
plucking out the wires
stitched into my throat
and spelling out
a map
for anyone who’s ever felt
too much
to speak.
so no,
you don’t have to get it.
this was never for the ones
who only read
with their eyes.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:38 PM UTC
do you still dress up your sadness
or have you seated it in the corner table
to eat with the children?
funny thing about tables and tears is
they get absorbed into the wood
because no one is going to notice the spill
in time to wipe you up.
it’ll just be an unsightly mark
where the wood swells with your sadness.
long gone are the insects
you forgave my dear
don't rent your heart out
to too many ghosts.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
fear is a feast,
my teeth stained purple
from eating bruises—
and i am always
carcass picked clean
by second thoughts.
love?
love is a butcher at the market,
smiling sweet
while weighing out a heart
i can't afford.
it's an executioner—
it asks me to place my own head
on the block—
to kneel before joy
as if it will not
tear me limb for limb
when it tires
of my trembling.
i am fearless among ruins,
skinning my knees
on broken chapels,
yet i fear hands
that thread stitches into my ruin
with the patience
of a surgeon,
and breath that curls in my mouth,
making me taste futures
i am too cowardly
to swallow.
i survive loneliness
like a vulture survives drought—
tight-bellied,
sharp-eyed,
full of memory.
but hope—
hope pours syrup
into my lungs
and calls it resurrection.
hope convinces me
that i want love—
but
only if it promises
not to break
what it finds.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC
Once upon a time, there were five children who weren’t really children.
They were neglected feelings wearing borrowed skin and convictions of no needs.
The first was a boy who felt nothing at all.
He walked through life like a ghost no one remembered dying.
They called him cold, but he was just tired
Of dripping in places no one would whipe.
Inside, he wanted someone to knock on the door he bolted shut.
But no one ever stayed long enough to try.
The second was a dog who was always smiling.
People passed by and said, “What a happy little thing.”
But they put a leash around its neck and called it loyalty.
It wagged its tail even when it hurt,
because someone once told it love is earned through obedience.
So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No one returns.
The third was a boy who swallowed his nightmares.
He thought if he ate them all,
they’d go away.
But they grew inside him like weeds—
and some nights, he screamed in his sleep,
his belly full of bells no one could hear.
The fourth was a hand—
just a hand.
It wanted everything.
It grabbed and gripped and begged to be filled.
But everything it touched turned into something else:
a kiss became a bruise,
a hug became a choke.
The hand never asked, only took.
And still, it was always hungry.
The fifth wore a mask.
A lovely one.
Shiny eyes, soft lips, laughter stitched just right.
She wore it so long,
she forgot who lived underneath.
When people loved her,
she wondered who they were loving.
So she smiled harder.
And disappeared a little more each day.
One by one,
they wandered into the Forest of Almost.
They didn’t mean to meet each other.
They were just looking for silence
that didn’t hurt.
They didn’t speak at first.
They only sat—close, but not touching.
Each one pretending not to notice
how the others looked like pieces of them.
The boy who felt nothing
was the only one who saw the dog’s leash.
The girl with the mask
was the only one who saw the nightmares blooming under the boy’s skin.
The greedy hand trembled when the smiling dog licked it gently,
as if even hunger deserved kindness.
And slowly,
they did what no one else had done for them:
They stayed.
Not to fix.
Not to save.
Just to be.
And maybe that was the magic.
Because in the Forest of Almost,
they didn’t become whole—
but they did become real.
And sometimes,
real is the bravest thing you can be.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC
Once,
they handed her a map—
blank,
except for the words:
“You are here.”
But here kept shifting.
One day, it was sorrow
shaped like a fox
with silver fur and eyes like unspoken apologies.
The next, it was joy—
a balloon beast that floated just out of reach,
tied to a string knotted around her ribcage.
She wandered.
Through the Forest of Almosts,
past the Swamp of Not-Yets,
into the valley where shame
whispered her name backward
so she wouldn’t recognize herself.
She wore her fears like jewelry.
Polished it.
Let it glint in the dark.
She met Anger
It didn’t scream.
It built towers from her old voices
and dared her to climb
without a rope.
She met Silence, too—
it moved like fog
and tasted like metal.
It offered her tea
and made her weep into her own hands
without asking why.
And still, she walked.
One night,
the moon opened a door in the ground.
She fell into a forest
with no sky,
where trees grew upside-down
and every path looked like a wound.
At the center,
she found a mirror
half-buried in the belly of a tree.
It didn’t show her face.
It showed her story—
stitched from shadows and second chances,
frayed,
but still holding.
And for the first time,
she didn’t want to erase anything.
She folded the blank map
into a boat.
Set it in the river.
And walked home—
not knowing the way,
but knowing she was the compass.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 1:32 PM UTC