...And when the therapist said
"How are you feeling now?"
I heard your voice
Whispering
'I do'
I smelled
Your aftershave
Wafting through our home
Tasted dessert before dinner
All along my tongue
Like you always said
was the better way to live
I saw your eyes
Flash with love
Or fear
As you held that clear blue
Like it might dissolve
I looked up at her, and I smiled.
"I'm not sure how I feel."
Which was true.
But I did know something.
I couldn't feel his hands on me,
Nor the blood dripping from my nose,
Or hear the screams.
My own.
I could no longer smell
burning fires
From bridges he burnt for me
in my honor,
Or taste soot from
My will to live
Being cremated in front of my eyes.
I think the absence
Is much better
Than the uncertainty.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 3:18 PM UTC
A side effect they never discuss
In the therapist’s office at nine,
When you’ve suffered an assault
Even adults wince to recount,
Is the ache in your core at fifteen.
The boiling desire with no bed to reside in,
Because the fear in your bones won't allow
Another’s touch
On your skin.
The harsh weight of the silence
As you lie in bed,
Spent from jackhammering a toy
That will never satisfy your spirit,
Or heal your wounds,
Or kiss your skin
And praise you for a job well done.
Assault isn’t over when the act ends;
I’ve known this for years.
My new question to be solved:
"WILL IT EVER BE?"
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 2:40 AM UTC
Pay attention;
You may hear my blood
As it trickles down my throat
From teeth tearing into
The meat of my tongue.
I don't WANT to feel
The throbbing agony
Of hiding my heart
Beneath my cracked ribs.
I'm just scared of release—
Like capturing a scream
Between the flesh of my lips,
Or the cold, hard truth
Behind crooked teeth.
I’d rather swallow.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 8:29 PM UTC
If I drink enough,
I can still feel my dad's punch.
The soft, warm hands that cradled me,
That painted sidewalks in my honor.
The cold, calloused fingers that taught me to dice veggies,
And the bruised, bleeding knuckles that
held me close through sobs.
I can feel the sharp sting of every beating I endured
For simply living in his spotlight.
I was the weeds, sapping away life in his garden of youth.
Does a **** choose to take root?
I can still hear the shattering glass
And cracking of wooden frames
Holding carefully placed brush strokes-
I was displaying my soul like a punching bag
In every soft color placed.
I can feel the floor shake,
Hear his screams as he wiped away my pride
Again
And again
In one fell sweep, shattering my safe spaces,
Destroying everything that meant anything to me-
As if my misery would bring back his joy.
I share her face every single day;
I know his pain intimately.
I wear it on my skin like a glove too small for hands of my own to fill.
Still, I wasn't strong enough to pull out for him.
Do I deserve the blame
For taking root in a womb unfit to raise?
I don't drink anymore.
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 1:53 AM UTC
Corners of his mouth
pulled up like a Bentley
blaring music:
MAN!
His lips had so much to say.
If I could touch them,
I'd be lashed
brass knuckle tongue.
Blades for teeth to bite
DOWN
on the lyrics of
my name.
So sweet it does sound
dripping like syrup from
his lips.
His smile as he calls my name
makes my heart
FEEL
his happiness.
Fruity tang of insults
yet to be spoken
because he knows to be
sweet to me.
And his teeth remind me of the
SWEET
release of sleep.
I've yet to touch them,
But plenty of his smile stays with me
far longer than skin cells of
lust
or
love
AND THAT
is fine.
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 1:44 AM UTC
My Beautiful Boy.
I don’t just want to kiss you.
I want to breathe you in until my lungs are heavy with you.
I want to live in the quiet between your thoughts,
the place you go when you zone out and the world gets too loud.
I know that look—the way your eyebrows crinkle,
the small, sharp pout when I catch you being beautiful.
I want to be the reason for it.
I want to be the soft landing for your silly, nonsensical days,
the stillness that replaces the glow of your phone at 2 AM.
You are safest here, pinned to my chest,
listening to the rhythm of a heart you changed without trying.
I can read your mind—I see the knots forming before you feel them.
I want to be the one who untangles the overthinking,
the quiet warmth on your snoring face,
the only thing steady in a life of shifting lines.
I love the scars. I love the dark brown depth of you.
I want to be the sweet compression of a hug that leaves no room for air.
Not an anchor, not a sail—just the weight that holds you down
when you feel like floating away.
I want you. I want the whole, messy, beautiful truth of us.
Every line. Every silence.
You are everything, and I am nothing.
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 1:16 AM UTC
Your lips, a sudden weight against the racket,
Like a firm hand over a rattling window.
You colour me,
Massaging suppressed personality
from my muscles
like a knot,
My world is narrowed to the space between us,
A desperate neediness in every shared breath of smoke.
Your body pressed against mine
like the pressure could hold me together again.
A language without words, a fierce
Promise whispered in the clench of a jaw,
A conversation of skin, a hard
Tightening of your pulse against my own.
I am held steady by the hook of our pinkie fingers and the smell of the sheets.
This wasn't soft; it was a battle,
A frantic gathering of the pieces we’d dropped along our paths.
It wasn't a fire—it was the moment the fever breaks,
Leaving us shivering,
Piecing ourselves together,
The rawness of having been found...
And the quiet realization of having been seen.
There's an art in saying nothing
At all
And you, my love, are an artist.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 5:02 PM UTC
I wrote a song about a boy once
And that boy made me cry
I tore it to shreds and I
Layed in my bed
And I laughed because it burned my eyes
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
Cold nights that split the canvas of my chest
A slow, jagged tear- pulling stars from their homely void
But you arrive, a quiet gravity, soft hands tracing the fissures...
You don't just mend the wound. You re-align the scattered light.
Taking the broken shards of my self, You polish them to a mirror-sheen, Setting each one back into the dark with a new, brighter focus.
Now, when the night returns,
The breaks aren't scars; they are the new lines of the map.
You make a galaxy out of the grief,
And I learn to love myself through your eyes.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 8:41 AM UTC
I'm so tired.
The weight of my body melts underneath the rubble of my thoughts. I am a floating consciousness, a hysterical nothing theorized by egotistical teens in sketchbooks.
I am only what you percieve I am, so all I have been through traces along my skin, little tan lines left from steel kisses. I am more than my flesh though.
I am the ball of knots making its way back up your throat during a hangover, and the dust bunny gaurding your untouched toothbrush.
I am the rot settling into your bones as burnout works at your soul.
I am a throbbing consciousness, one line of cold soaked promises of forever from ascension.
I hope I haunt your empty husk like a termite might haunt an attic, and when you recall how we got here I hope you cry.
While you're lying in thought I hope I linger, a first kiss burnt onto your lips.
I hope your heart takes a lashing, for I spent months choking down sobs in your honor.
☆ In my loving, I hoped to wound you so that your ache might echo my own. ☆
The kind of ache you only get when you're young and stupid.
The kind of poem you only write when nothing feels right anymore.
And the kinda girl who's simmered down into
a suicide note.
Goodnight.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 1:11 PM UTC