Happy birthday to me,
I am awake
and all alone.
The day has arrived
quiet as dust
in this dark and empty home.
No husband at my side,
no voices
ringing on my phone.
Happy birthday to me—
still awake
and all alone.
No cake was waiting
on the counter today,
not even a cookie of my own.
No candle,
no little wish
with flickering light to be blown.
Happy birthday to me,
I am awake
and all alone.
No friends arrived,
no laughter
echoing through this home.
Just children fighting
room to room
like my birthday was never known.
Happy birthday to me,
still awake
and all alone.
I did not need
some grand display
or decorations brightly thrown.
Just one small hug,
a “happy birthday,”
some proof I am not alone.
Happy birthday to me,
I am awake
and all alone.
Because the girl
most easily forgotten
is used to carrying that stone.
But people rarely see
how much it hurts
to feel invisible at home.
Happy birthday to me—
still awake
and all alone.
Today has passed
without a care,
no concern was ever shown.
But at least I have
my poetry journal
to soften this quiet home.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:23 AM UTC
There was a time my heartbeat
was the only one I knew,
and even keeping that alive
felt impossible to do.
The world was sharp with winter then,
uncertain, hard, and wild,
until it placed into my arms,
Jacob, my firstborn child.
You arrived unplanned to everyone,
including your dad and me,
and suddenly your fragile heart
depended on our plea.
We could not always pay the bills,
or fill the kitchen shelves,
but somehow love still built a home
from broken parts of ourselves.
The world stayed cruel beyond our door,
its teeth still bared the same,
yet somehow when you laughed at me,
the coldness never came.
And I did all a mother could
to soften what I knew—
to make the world feel gentler,
when it was harsh to you.
Then came Finn, the heartbeat planned,
the child we dreamed to meet,
awaited long with hopeful hands
before his heart could beat.
Yet love did not arrive more full
than when your brother came—
from the start we held you both
with hearts that loved the same.
You boys became each other’s world,
shadows at each other’s sides,
and neither one of you could stray
too far from where the other lied.
The world remained a difficult place,
uncertain, loud, unfair,
but every year it felt more full
because the two of you were there.
We thought our family story done,
our chapters neatly tied,
until sweet Bobbi tried to bloom—
and then that small light died.
There was blood and grief and empty rooms,
a silence hard to name,
and though you boys were far too young,
you still were changed the same.
Children know what mothers hide,
even without words;
they feel the ache inside a home
before it can be heard.
Four long years the frost remained
around my fragile heart,
until surprise came wrapped in spring
with little Marceline’s start.
We never thought another soul
would find their way to us,
yet still we made a place of joy,
with laughter, love, and trust.
And when she finally reached our arms,
we somehow simply knew—
our family circle had been drawn
completely now with you.
You could not keep up with the boys,
though heaven knows you tried,
forever racing after them
with stubbornness and pride.
The three of you became as one,
through every laugh and fight,
and somehow every argument
just bound your hearts more tight.
The world has always been this hard,
this cold, uncertain place,
but somehow color learned to grow
where all your hearts made space.
Then came Neptr, little puppy soul,
already sick from birth,
teaching us that even life short-lived
can still carry wonder on Earth.
Now Simon and Peppers greet the dawn
like joy that won’t sit still,
furry reminders every day
that love survives through will.
The world is still uncertain,
still sharp in many ways,
but none of you must face it alone
as you all walk through your days.
So if I fear tomorrow still,
if storms still shake above,
I face them now surrounded
by the fiercest kind of love.
The love of a family happy and full,
bright laughter through each room,
where every day is a gift anew,
every year another bloom.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 8:17 PM UTC
I don't want to die.
But my body keeps trying—
why?
I should be running through fields,
not dreading what the end yields.
Why does my blood
pulse with mutiny?
Oxygen kept from cells—
hypoxia.
I have held this body
gently—
nourished it
with food.
Hydrated it
with liquids,
Filled it
with forgiveness.
Dragged it
kicking and screaming
through years it swore
it would not survive.
So why then must
my body turn against me
like an animal trapped—
chewing through itself
to escape?
I've ingested
treatments and cures—
placebos—
bottled ultimatums,
poisons with kind names.
They say:
take this
and lose your appetite.
Take this
and lose your sleep.
Take this
and lose your memory,
your strength,
your hair,
your teeth,
your hunger for life.
Take this
until survival itself
folds into a waiting room.
I don't want my last words
to ride on the
air conditioning,
heavy with the ghosts
of hospital rooms.
To filter through
machinery,
stripping soul from breath.
Too many have died
there already—
beneath fluorescent heavens
that never knew stars.
I hear them sometimes.
Not in voices,
but in the cold machinery hum
that says:
be free—
but not like me.
So if death must find me,
let it find me
on my terms.
Let it find me
living free and wild,
not hooked up to machines.
I will not be reduced to
wristbands,
charts,
dosages,
insurance forms.
Because I don't want to die.
But if my body insists,
then let me go
as someone still living,
not a shadow pinned to sheets.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 4:14 PM UTC
You shouldn’t have to
decompose this way,
stranded in a manmade
desert of gray.
Where Mother Nature
is banished from sight,
where nothing is sacred
and blooms perish white.
No hands left to gather
your fragile remains,
no earth soft with clover,
no cool summer rains.
Only heat shimmering
off pavement and tar,
while engines keep roaring
like mechanical war.
You deserved to grow still
where the wildflowers sway,
where weeds rise like cathedrals
untouched by decay.
Where the world unseen
bustles busy below,
through roots curled in darkness
where green things still grow.
You should have been carried
by rivers through loam,
returned to the soil
that once called you home.
Instead you lie stranded
beside human feet,
while crowds pass you over
through this merciless street.
And I mourn for the kingdoms
our species destroyed,
for gardens made silent,
left barren and void.
For every small creature
we starved from the sun,
all sacrificed slowly
for “progress” and “fun.”
Rest now in stillness,
blessed be—
for all this grieving
is for the humble bumblebee.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 1:25 AM UTC
I am not afraid of you.
Not your voice,
not your claim,
not the ghosts of what you do.
You cannot have me.
You cannot have them.
Not my blood,
not my breath—
not again.
Not again.
I have wrestled death as a child
in a house dressed up as care—
where love wore teeth,
hands were weapons,
and danger filled the air.
I clawed my way from nothing—
from the streets, from being thrown—
built a spine from broken shelters,
made a life from being alone.
I have stood in rooms with men
twice my size and full of rage—
met their eyes and did not falter,
though I trembled in the cage.
So when I tell you
you cannot have us—
hear it carved in bone:
No sale.
No trade.
No price.
No throne.
When I stand before my children,
rooted, fierce, unmoved, unbent—
understand what stands between you
is not fear,
but consequence.
I will not run.
I will not hide.
Come for what’s mine—
I swear to you—
I’ll take you with me
next time.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 11:59 PM UTC
Purple Dreams (Short Version)
Two lines—
positively excited.
Dreaming of
purple worlds.
Purple bleeds
into red.
_________________________
Purple Dreams (Long Version)
Two lines—
positively excited.
Dreaming of purple worlds—
soft,
hopeful,
filled with possibilities.
A color you could build a future on.
I painted everything with it—
walls,
clothes,
a life.
We gave you names
before you had a body
I could hold.
You didn’t make me a mom
that day—
but a mom of three
I would have been.
And when Marceline
came unexpectedly our way,
she would have made it four.
But you didn’t stay.
—
I swear,
if there had been a door,
I would have found it.
I would have found you.
Ripped you from the edge
of nothing
and stitched you whole.
Isn’t that
what this body is for?
So why did it
let you go?
—
That night I danced—
my body speaking in riddles:
ache,
weight,
omens I mistook for growth.
Unknowing
I was already
losing you.
—
They told me at the hospital
in careful voices.
But I had already learned it
in the red.
I should have stayed home.
God—why did I go?
Why did I dance,
why didn’t I know?
No.
No.
That voice isn’t mine.
That voice isn't true.
It doesn’t belong
in this body
that almost made you.
—
You were here.
You were here.
And then…
you weren’t.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 10:29 PM UTC
I want to tear you to pieces,
unravel your soul thread by thread,
then stitch you back together,
and carry you in my pocket instead.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 5:53 PM UTC
We return to it
like something inherited—
a language our bodies learned
before we knew the words.
No asking.
No hesitation.
Just the slow remembering
of fingers finding skin,
the way touch excites the senses.
There is a knowing to us,
ancient and willing—
a falling into place
that feels less like choice
and more like truth.
Arching back—
stuttered litany—
rhythm taking hold.
And she—
she moves with certainty;
every touch—
every stroke—
intentional.
Knows before I speak,
before desire rises in my chest—
as if passing through her first
and echoing back to me.
Slender digits finding places
men declared lost—
declared figment—
yet yielding for her,
as if they only ever existed
to be known this way.
She listens without sound,
answers without question,
guides me like she speaks this body fluently.
Better than hands that mistook me
for an instrument.
She understands
the quiet language—
the unspoken shifts—
the way we become our own storm.
Because only a woman knows
how a woman feels.
And still—
we blur.
She becomes closer,
clearer—
until there is no distance left to measure.
No space.
No her.
Only the room,
dim and breathing—
soft R&B pulsing somewhere unseen,
the sticky-sweet exhale
of greenhouse thunder
pressing warm against the walls.
And in it—
I.
Alone,
but not lonely.
Tending my own garden,
petal by petal,
every bloom shivering,
answering only to me.
Every sound—
mine.
Every motion—
mine.
Poetry written with my body—
a secret,
freely spoken
in a language of rhythm and tease.
I tend my pearl—
no man’s name upon my lips,
only reverence for this body—
Gaian,
sacred,
solitary.
Because no one
has ever known me
like this—
like I do.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 4:04 AM UTC
There is no better love that fate could weave,
no gentler soul to hold against my storm.
Where others stumble, tremble, turn, or leave,
you meet my chaos—give it space to form.
You are the melody weaving through my wild,
the steady pulse beneath my fractured sound;
and I, whimsical, restless, fierce, and styled,
find in your space a place where I am found.
I do not bow from duty, nor from role,
but from the awe your symphonic strength inspires;
you bend to me as I bend to your soul,
and keep me steady—the rhythm to my fires.
So let the world keep all its grand design,
for no greater symphony exists than thine.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 2:49 PM UTC
I used to stand with my hands in my jeans,
watching everyone move like they knew what it means.
Heart in my throat, feet stuck to the floor—
but the bass kept knocking like…you know you want more.
I was stiff like a mannequin, locked in place,
I didn’t trust my body, didn’t know my space.
They’d laugh and say, “Don’t play,
you already dance when you walk that way.”
Side to side, yeah my hips would sway
A little too much, that’s what they’d say
Blamed my spine, how my body’s made—
But that rhythm in me never went away.
“You walk like your hips were built to glide,
that little sway? That’s your built-in guide.”
So I let it go. Stopped asking why.
Turned that sway into something mine.
Put in the time to listen to my hips—
learn what makes them rise and dip.
I started in my room where no one could see,
tracing small circles, shaky in my knees.
Mirror on the wall, like “who is she?”
Learning every line of my geometry
I danced in kitchens, barefoot on wood,
danced with friends who always knew I could—
Every wrong step I turned into style—
every awkward phase just took a while.
Now I roll my hips smooth—no need to guess,
from side to side I just say yes.
What I thought was wrong I learned to trust—
now that same old sway feels dangerous.
The dancefloor cured my two left feet,
bodies moving with the heat.
Now I don’t think, I just align
with every wave running through my spine.
So if you've got that sashay, don’t you hide—
that little sway? That’s your built-in guide.
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 11:47 AM UTC