asena7 - Hello Poetry

I grieved the man I imagined, until time revealed the man before me. And what a mercy that was. For the husband I pray for would never ask honesty of me while withholding it himself. He would not leave my heart knocking upon a bolted door. Thus I do not mourn what was lost. I give thanks that what is meant for me bears no resemblance to what I left behind.

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23h ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 2:05 PM UTC

new beginnings

I grieved the man I imagined, until time revealed the man before me. And what a mercy that was. For the husband I pray for would never ask honesty of me while withholding it himself. He would not leave my heart knocking upon a bolted door. Thus I do not mourn what was lost. I give thanks that what is meant for me bears no resemblance to what I left behind.

12

Reciprocation, such a beautiful thing. I used to pray for my love to be returned my words, my effort, the way I stayed soft even after being hurt. But now, I only want it if it’s real. A longing so deep it settles itself into my bones. Every pulse in my body aches to be loved gently. A love that does not waver when life becomes heavy. A love that stays. A love that does not weaponize my softness. But I’ve learned that until God sees fit, His love is enough for me. And one day, He’ll send me a man who trembles at the thought of hurting me, not one who wounds me knowingly then hides behind apologies that never become change. A man of God. A man who keeps his word even when it is difficult. A man who will help me build a home where our future children never have to question what love is supposed to feel like. And because something that sacred should never be rushed, I will wait however many sunrises and sunsets it takes for God to lead that man to me.

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7d ago

May 27, 2026 at 2:58 PM UTC

patience

Reciprocation, such a beautiful thing. I used to pray for my love to be returned my words, my effort, the way I stayed soft even after being hurt. But now, I only want it if it’s real. A longing so deep it settles itself into my bones. Every pulse in my body aches to be loved gently. A love that does not waver when life becomes heavy. A love that stays. A love that does not weaponize my softness. But I’ve learned that until God sees fit, His love is enough for me. And one day, He’ll send me a man who trembles at the thought of hurting me, not one who wounds me knowingly then hides behind apologies that never become change. A man of God. A man who keeps his word even when it is difficult. A man who will help me build a home where our future children never have to question what love is supposed to feel like. And because something that sacred should never be rushed, I will wait however many sunrises and sunsets it takes for God to lead that man to me.

32

There was a time I thought love was a wildfire something that proves itself by how fast it burns you alive. I mistook anxiety for intimacy, late-night overthinking for devotion, and silence that stung for something sacred I just had to “understand.” But real love is not a storm that leaves you searching for shelter. It is a house that is still standing when the weather changes. And I learned slowly, painfully that you can call a thing destiny simply because you wanted it to stay. So I held on to almost-love like it was prophecy, when it was really just potential that never learned how to become presence. Still, I do not call it wasted. Even the ocean shapes the stone it breaks. The Lord, in His quiet way, showed me I had built an altar out of being chosen by people instead of resting in being already known by Him. So what could not stay… fell. Not as punishment— but as pruning. And sometimes it still feels like walking through an empty cathedral in my mind, hearing echoes of what I once believed would last forever. But I am learning now: love is not meant to consume you like fire, It is meant to refine you like gold. Somewhere ahead of me, there is a man who will not treat love like a spark that fades, but like a vow that holds weight even in silence. Not perfect,but present. Not loud, but steady. Maybe he is becoming, even now, the kind of man who knows how to stay when things are no longer easy to romanticize. And maybe he has prayed for a girl like me not because I am flawless, but because I am still soft after learning what could have made me hard. So I will keep walking with God. Because I am no longer waiting to be chosen like a momentary feeling I am being prepared like something meant to last.

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May 20

May 20, 2026 at 11:06 AM UTC

lessons of fire

There was a time I thought love was a wildfire something that proves itself by how fast it burns you alive. I mistook anxiety for intimacy, late-night overthinking for devotion, and silence that stung for something sacred I just had to “understand.” But real love is not a storm that leaves you searching for shelter. It is a house that is still standing when the weather changes. And I learned slowly, painfully that you can call a thing destiny simply because you wanted it to stay. So I held on to almost-love like it was prophecy, when it was really just potential that never learned how to become presence. Still, I do not call it wasted. Even the ocean shapes the stone it breaks. The Lord, in His quiet way, showed me I had built an altar out of being chosen by people instead of resting in being already known by Him. So what could not stay… fell. Not as punishment— but as pruning. And sometimes it still feels like walking through an empty cathedral in my mind, hearing echoes of what I once believed would last forever. But I am learning now: love is not meant to consume you like fire, It is meant to refine you like gold. Somewhere ahead of me, there is a man who will not treat love like a spark that fades, but like a vow that holds weight even in silence. Not perfect,but present. Not loud, but steady. Maybe he is becoming, even now, the kind of man who knows how to stay when things are no longer easy to romanticize. And maybe he has prayed for a girl like me not because I am flawless, but because I am still soft after learning what could have made me hard. So I will keep walking with God. Because I am no longer waiting to be chosen like a momentary feeling I am being prepared like something meant to last.

39

Ornamental kale a bloom not meant for warmth, not coaxed open by gentle suns nor persuaded by the ease of spring. When one speaks of flowers, they speak of light, of softness, of beginnings wrapped in gold. Yet few remember the flowers of winter, those that bow not to frost, but are strengthened by it. I find myself among them. For it is not in my seasons of comfort that I am made whole, but in the hours when the world grows quiet, when all I have built seems to fall inward and the cold settles deep within my bones. There, amid ruin and stillness my mind is sharpened, My voice was honest. Words rise where warmth once failed me, and sorrow teaches me how to speak. In the break, I am gathered. In the winter of my life, my spirit does not wither, it flourishes.

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May 18

May 18, 2026 at 7:05 PM UTC

flowers of every kind

Ornamental kale a bloom not meant for warmth, not coaxed open by gentle suns nor persuaded by the ease of spring. When one speaks of flowers, they speak of light, of softness, of beginnings wrapped in gold. Yet few remember the flowers of winter, those that bow not to frost, but are strengthened by it. I find myself among them. For it is not in my seasons of comfort that I am made whole, but in the hours when the world grows quiet, when all I have built seems to fall inward and the cold settles deep within my bones. There, amid ruin and stillness my mind is sharpened, My voice was honest. Words rise where warmth once failed me, and sorrow teaches me how to speak. In the break, I am gathered. In the winter of my life, my spirit does not wither, it flourishes.

25

I am seventeen, almost eighteen, still lying in a dark room whispering to the ceiling it will be okay. But I was sixteen once tears soaking into a pillow like secrets the fabric learned to keep, fifty pills trembling in my hand, promising myself it will be okay. I was fifteen once arms mapped in quiet red lines, asking the mirror why me? while my reflection answered nothing. Still whispering, it will be okay. I was fourteen once discovering the language of pain, the burn that spoke louder than words ever could, learning how silence can scream. Still whispering, it will be okay. I was thirteen once lying awake, staring at the future like a hallway with no lights, wondering if the darkness was permanent, if this feeling had signed a lease inside my chest. Wondering if it would stay this way forever.

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Feb 18

Feb 18, 2026 at 1:58 PM UTC

stagnant?

I am seventeen, almost eighteen, still lying in a dark room whispering to the ceiling it will be okay. But I was sixteen once tears soaking into a pillow like secrets the fabric learned to keep, fifty pills trembling in my hand, promising myself it will be okay. I was fifteen once arms mapped in quiet red lines, asking the mirror why me? while my reflection answered nothing. Still whispering, it will be okay. I was fourteen once discovering the language of pain, the burn that spoke louder than words ever could, learning how silence can scream. Still whispering, it will be okay. I was thirteen once lying awake, staring at the future like a hallway with no lights, wondering if the darkness was permanent, if this feeling had signed a lease inside my chest. Wondering if it would stay this way forever.

32

Surviving both of my mothers changed the way I learned to love. To be loved, I folded myself small. I learned silence like a second language. I smiled when I was breaking. I swallowed tears until they burned. I was yelled at for feeling, so I learned how not to feel at all. Love, to me, meant shrinking. Love meant surviving. But this is a new era of my life. I am unlearning survival and relearning love. There are friends who chose me through every version of myself. Friends who include me. Friends who want me. There are sisters who lift me without asking why I’m heavy. Sisters who listen to the same story again and again and never ask me to be smaller. So maybe I never received the motherly love I craved. But because of that, I will become it. My children will never question my love. They will never fear my voice. They will never rehearse their words before speaking to me. I will replace guilt with grace. I will replace fear with safety. I will replace silence with warmth. I will break the cycle. And all the times I was broken will become the reason they never have to be.

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Feb 7

Feb 7, 2026 at 3:47 PM UTC

renaissance

Surviving both of my mothers changed the way I learned to love. To be loved, I folded myself small. I learned silence like a second language. I smiled when I was breaking. I swallowed tears until they burned. I was yelled at for feeling, so I learned how not to feel at all. Love, to me, meant shrinking. Love meant surviving. But this is a new era of my life. I am unlearning survival and relearning love. There are friends who chose me through every version of myself. Friends who include me. Friends who want me. There are sisters who lift me without asking why I’m heavy. Sisters who listen to the same story again and again and never ask me to be smaller. So maybe I never received the motherly love I craved. But because of that, I will become it. My children will never question my love. They will never fear my voice. They will never rehearse their words before speaking to me. I will replace guilt with grace. I will replace fear with safety. I will replace silence with warmth. I will break the cycle. And all the times I was broken will become the reason they never have to be.

37

I tried to die and you didn’t look afraid. You looked annoyed. You counted my coping like crimes, measured my pain by how inconvenient it was to you. I survived and that was your proof that nothing had been wrong. You laughed when I shared trauma, as if choking a child was something forgettable, as if bruises fading meant it never happened. You didn’t see a daughter who wanted to stop breathing. You saw bad habits. You saw disrespect. You saw yourself as the victim. You taught me that suffering only matters if it kills you. And even then, I think you would’ve blamed me.

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Jan 2

Jan 2, 2026 at 1:41 PM UTC

i hate you mom

I tried to die and you didn’t look afraid. You looked annoyed. You counted my coping like crimes, measured my pain by how inconvenient it was to you. I survived and that was your proof that nothing had been wrong. You laughed when I shared trauma, as if choking a child was something forgettable, as if bruises fading meant it never happened. You didn’t see a daughter who wanted to stop breathing. You saw bad habits. You saw disrespect. You saw yourself as the victim. You taught me that suffering only matters if it kills you. And even then, I think you would’ve blamed me.

23

I learned endings at six. So don’t call it fear call it memory. I don’t dread being left. I dread being drained, loved slowly empty until there’s nothing worth missing. I love urgently because nothing stayed. I expect disappearance so hope won’t humiliate me. If you stay, don’t stay because I endured. Stay because you met me. I am not temporary. I was just taught to expect loss.

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Jan 2

Jan 2, 2026 at 1:29 PM UTC

letters from my soul

I learned endings at six. So don’t call it fear call it memory. I don’t dread being left. I dread being drained, loved slowly empty until there’s nothing worth missing. I love urgently because nothing stayed. I expect disappearance so hope won’t humiliate me. If you stay, don’t stay because I endured. Stay because you met me. I am not temporary. I was just taught to expect loss.

16

I listen to songs like they might leave me. Every lyric is held longer than it asks to be, every melody memorized, in case it doesn’t come back. I do this with people too. Friends, family, strangers who linger I learn their rhythms, the way you learn a place you’re not sure you’re allowed to stay. I have always lived like something is ending. Like rooms are borrowed, like love has an expiration I can’t see. So when something remains, I love it with my whole being not gently, not briefly. They call it overthinking, overfeeling. But it is simply what you do when you’ve been temporary for so long that staying feels miraculous, and nothing that stays is ever small.

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Dec 15, 2025

Dec 15, 2025 at 2:26 PM UTC

fervent

I listen to songs like they might leave me. Every lyric is held longer than it asks to be, every melody memorized, in case it doesn’t come back. I do this with people too. Friends, family, strangers who linger I learn their rhythms, the way you learn a place you’re not sure you’re allowed to stay. I have always lived like something is ending. Like rooms are borrowed, like love has an expiration I can’t see. So when something remains, I love it with my whole being not gently, not briefly. They call it overthinking, overfeeling. But it is simply what you do when you’ve been temporary for so long that staying feels miraculous, and nothing that stays is ever small.

21

every year, a new state. every move, a new version of me. by seven, the idea that i was temporary to everyone was already engravened so deep into my soul a feeling i still carry... at every school, the lunch tables were full, the best-friend spots already taken, the invitations already sent. i learned to fold myself small, to slip into the background, to become whatever each place needed a chameleon pretending to belong. but even in all that shifting, the Lord stayed still. when i felt replaceable, He called me His. when the world felt temporary, He became my constant. and in His eyes i was never fleeting, never a placeholder always permanent.

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC

Gods love

every year, a new state. every move, a new version of me. by seven, the idea that i was temporary to everyone was already engravened so deep into my soul a feeling i still carry... at every school, the lunch tables were full, the best-friend spots already taken, the invitations already sent. i learned to fold myself small, to slip into the background, to become whatever each place needed a chameleon pretending to belong. but even in all that shifting, the Lord stayed still. when i felt replaceable, He called me His. when the world felt temporary, He became my constant. and in His eyes i was never fleeting, never a placeholder always permanent.

22