There's a man who hangs the moon above our beds
and comes home wearing a second dusk on his collar.
He reads the little one to sleep in two soft voices,
then drives off toward a porch light that isn't ours.
My mother is the kitchen's only sun.
She warms the rooms he keeps leaving cold,
sets four plates as though the table were honest,
and never once asks the empty chair where it's been.
She is far too much gold for the small pocket he keeps her in.
I have learned to carry two weathers in one chest
the storm that wants to tear his name from every wall,
the quiet that still wants to climb into his lap.
Both of them are true. Both of them are heavy.
For my brother I become a wall with a window painted on it.
Let him believe the view is open fields.
Let him keep the whole father I can only half hold now.
There's a number you can call when a house is burning.
There is no number for the house that only smolders
the one that keeps its shape, keeps its supper warm,
and aches somewhere deep in the beams
where no one ever thinks to look.
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 2:15 PM UTC
Do not forget
this flesh still is human
when you cut it with your words
it bleeds red like any other.
These shackles still press tight
but this bone still cracks beneath the weight.
This heart still beats
even when the world shows only skin and bone
like a brittle frame on display for the eyes of strangers
a mere number on screens that do not know my name.
I am sorry
sorry that I dared to dream
sorry that I was born poor
sorry for the dirt beneath my feet
from years of hard work
sorry for the hunger that paints my days
sorry I exist at all.
But do not deny me
do not deny this breath
this pulse that fights in the quiet shadows.
I am not just flesh and bones
though it may seem so
in this light so harsh.
If you still choose to see me as nothing more
then take this flesh
feed your greed
and swallow it whole.
But
I am here
and I will not be invisible.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
The sky is heavy with silence
No god speaks tonight
Only the breathless hush of space
spilling into a world
trying not to fall apart
You sit with your knees pulled to your chest,
the sand colder than you thought it’d be
Everything feels like it’s waiting
You try to remember the last time
you truly wanted to stay
Not survive
Not distract
But stay
The waves keep folding into themselves,
and the air smells like salt and sleep
You wonder how the world keeps moving
with so many people lost in their own weather
You think of the way your mother said your name
when she wasn’t angry,
the way a stranger once held a door
and meant it
You think of someone you used to love
and how their absence
taught you everything
about presence
And it hits you
this world, so fragile it cracks under headlines,
still dares to spin
Children still grip their father’s fingers
as if the universe begins in that gesture
Somewhere, someone writes their first poem,
believing it might save them
Maybe it’s not God,
or gravity,
or some grand machine
Maybe it’s
a girl humming a Beach House song
in the back of a half-empty bus,
two people who don’t speak the same language
still laughing at the same dog chasing waves
Maybe it’s this
a soft defiance against collapse,
the way a soul leans forward,
even bruised
Even tired
Maybe it’s the quiet decision
to reach out
one more time
And maybe that’s enough?
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 12:29 AM UTC
Cut me wide,
let the truth spill out
This isn't mercy,
it's the cost of doubt
I didn’t break the way you planned
I held the fire in my hands
You wanted quiet,
I roared instead
A hurricane
Inside my chest
You called it peace when you walked away
But I still wake with your name
Like a scar behind my teeth
Like something
I can't rinse clean
You left, but you still remain
A bruise I sing through every day
I wasn't still
I shook the ground
You wanted shadows,
I gave sound
No apology for thunder skies
I never learned to whisper lies
No soft goodbye,
no fading line
Just silence dressed up as divine
But peace should never taste like ash
And I still carry what we had
You called it peace when you turned away
But I still wake with your name
Not just a bruise, not just a sting
It’s carved into my everything
You left, but I remain
With your storm beneath my skin
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 12:05 AM UTC
this feels brighter
as if the light
has remembered
how to touch skin
the colors of our childhood have come back
crayon blue skies
the chirping
the colors of the flowers
and the smell
oh the smell
not exactly as they were
everything feels like return
but not quite return
and still, underneath it all
a strange quiet
not absence
as if we’ve died so many little deaths
the body has stopped keeping count
this ending feels like
a well-rehearsed ritual
the last page of a book
we wrote in pencil
softly erasing itself
while we smile and say,
yes
this is how it always was
and was always going to be
what a gentle way to disappear
by becoming more visible
by returning, not to youth
but to the myth of it
and letting it wash over us
one final time
like a sky too blue
to believe in
but still, we look up
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 10:50 PM UTC
in another life
i hand myself the softness i craved
the hush of a nursery,
tiny socks folded in drawers,
the scent of baked cookies
and giggles echoing down a hallway i built
with both hands and every part of my heart.
in another life,
i let myself be her
the one who kneels to tie shoelaces
and learns their favorite video game
just to lose on purpose.
the mom who never forgets a bedtime story
even when the world outside forgets
everything else.
but not in this one.
not here.
not when the sky falls in headlines
and safety feels like a myth
told to children too young to know better.
my mother still holds hope
she says:
you’d be a good one.
you’d love so fully, they’d bloom.
but she doesn’t see
that my love is the very reason
i won’t.
because to carry them
into this chaos
this fractured, loud, unforgiving place
feels like betrayal
dressed in lullabies.
so i stay empty,
not from lack
but from a fullness of care
so deep it aches.
and maybe
in another life
i will not love them
by leaving them behind.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC
mornings are
hazy green.
not fog.
just something thick
i can’t walk through
without forgetting
what i was doing.
i missed the magnolia bloom.
again.
it’s always
just over.
like it was waiting for me
to look away.
i clench my jaw
until it breaks.
rip my heart out of the chest
only to sew it back again
maybe it’s
placebo happiness
through sadness
just enough feeling
to not feel numb.
just enough
to trick myself
into thinking
this is living.
sometimes
i tell myself
everyone hates me.
not dramatically.
just
like a fact.
like a quiet truth
that’s easier
than
well
uncertainty.
maybe this is
diet joy.
lite living.
a knockoff feeling
from the back shelf
that still gets the job done.
placebo soul.
but lately,
i’m scared of being alone.
the shape of my voice.
it knows me
too well
too precisely,
and wants
something
i forgot how to give.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
I’m sat in the window seat
Cool against my head,
vibrating softly with the hum of the tracks
Outside
snapshots of other people’s lives
A woman brushing crumbs from a table,
a child leaping over a puddle,
Grandmas saying goodbyes
Some sun,
some rain
Some days that feel like nights
The train moves forward,
always forward
No signs,
no names,
just a blur of motion and color.
Passengers shift around me,
luggage tucked under seats,
eyes full of somewhere
Their faces carry a quiet certainty,
as if they all agreed on the destination
before boarding
But I didn’t
I hold a pass stamped Nowhere.
No stop to look forward to
No reason for being here
except that I already am
I can’t get off
The train doesn’t stop for questions
There’s a tightness in my chest
that rises with each tunnel,
each bend,
each hollow station passed
And it’s not the motion that makes me feel sick
it’s the stillness underneath it
This strange dissonance
of moving so fast
yet going nowhere
I thought maybe the journey would reveal something
But the longer I sit,
the more the windows reflect back only myself
faint, flickering,
unmoved
Just headed
Nowhere
that never arrives.
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
everyone is becoming
everything is becoming
the grass wakes up in pulses of green
trees stretch into themselves again
birds rehearse joy like a familiar script
and
I
a bare tree
not dead
just undecorated
too naked amongst the luscious
I sit in the middle of blooming
like a teenager who missed the cue
my skin doesn’t feel new
the light touches everything with tenderness
except me
skipping over
like I’m not ready
or not worth
or not
yet
maybe this is my season of pause
maybe
but maybe
I’m just behind
and it’s hard
watching the world dress itself in celebration
while I stand here
unbuttoned
unfinished
unbecoming
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
I would give you my slice of life, but
it’s like trying to hand you the horizon
a stretch of color that can never fit in your palm
You’d ask for details,
and I’d offer the taste of rain on the skin,
the way the world holds its breath before thunder,
a pause that fills your lungs like forgotten words.
There are mornings I wake up
and the air feels like an old letter,
creases worn smooth by time
I would give you that too,
but how do you hold a memory
that hasn’t yet figured out what it is?
You would want to know about the silence
between the seconds
the space where nothing happens
and everything happens
I’d give you that,
if I could explain how it feels
to sit with a half-made thought.
I can only offer fragments
a fleeting look in someone’s eyes,
the quiet rhythm of a clock
refusing to rush when you want it to
the way a day slips from morning to evening
I would give you my slice of life,
but all I have are these pieces,
and none of them are quite enough
quite complete
to make you feel what it’s like
to live inside them
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 3:18 PM UTC