The day I die,
the sycamores will finally loosen
their silver undersides
and stop rehearsing storms for my benefit.
The pond behind the hill
will unlatch its green enamel lid,
releasing every drowned reflection
it has hoarded for decades.
I imagine the afternoon
as a conservatory of pale glass,
sunlight decanting itself
across marble balustrades,
each beam a quiet custodian
sweeping dust from forgotten corners.
All my life,
I have carried a house inside my ribs.
Its corridors were crowded with clocks,
their brass mouths muttering
of overdue tomorrows.
Its windows collected weather.
Its cellar fermented grief
into dark vintages.
The day I die,
I will leave the keys upon the table.
The hinges may continue singing.
The rafters may remember my name.
Yet I will have stepped beyond
the architecture of wanting.
No more bargaining with dawn.
No more stitching together
the frayed hem of another difficult season.
I will become something simpler.
Perhaps a petal relinquished to a river.
Perhaps the last lantern
extinguished after a festival,
its smoke ascending
through the indigo vestibule of evening.
The moon will not mourn me.
She will merely polish
her pearl-white countenance
and continue drifting
through orchards of cloud.
The earth will carry on
with its exquisite occupations:
thrushes threading music
through the hedgerows,
rain annotating stone,
foxgloves lifting their violet chalices
toward the attentive sky.
And for the first time,
I will ask nothing of it.
Not mercy.
Not permanence.
Not explanation.
Only stillness.
Only the immaculate quiet
found beneath every wave,
beneath every root,
beneath every name we are given.
The day I die
may be the day I am happiest,
not because death is a kingdom,
nor because sorrow has triumphed,
but because every burden
will finally slip its moorings,
and I will drift,
light as thistledown,
through a silence so vast
it can no longer distinguish
between ending
and peace.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 9:01 PM UTC
And when my cuckoo heart winds down its final tick,
do not coax it back into motion;
let it slip away in peace.
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 4:32 PM UTC
Sometimes it feels like my mind liquefies
and drifts somewhere unmoored.
The room begins to pearl at the edges.
Wallpaper sweats into watercolor blooms,
the ceiling lamp hemorrhages amber pollen,
and every object acquires the viscosity
of something remembered underwater.
I sit very still
while the evening dilates around me.
The radiator clicks like wet arthropod limbs.
A glass of juice ferments beside the bed,
its surface lacquered with the faint metallic scent
of pennies pressed into the tongue.
Outside, rainwater sluices through the gutter system
with the sound of silk unraveling from a throat.
My body becomes increasingly theoretical.
Hands first.
Then the jaw.
Then the entire architecture of my name.
I feel myself dissolving by teaspoons
into the upholstery of the hour.
Thoughts stretch into translucent filament,
gelatinous and luminous,
like deep sea organisms surfacing too abruptly
through pressure they were never designed to survive.
The mirror across from me
cannot retain my reflection consistently.
It blurs.
Reconstitutes.
Blurs again.
Sometimes I think consciousness resembles
a fruit left too long in summer heat.
The skin intact.
The interior quietly collapsing into nectar.
Music leaks through the wall
in muffled fibrillations,
basslines thick as petroleum.
The sound enters me slowly,
fills the ventricles with black syrup,
turns memory into a liquid medium
through which old grief drifts half-awake.
There are moments
where I can no longer distinguish exhaustion
from transcendence.
The carpet ripples softly beneath my feet.
Streetlights smear themselves across the windowpane
like gold cosmetic powder dissolved in milk.
Everything appears touchable
yet impossibly remote,
as if the world has been sealed behind aquarium glass
and I am observing it from the ocean floor.
Even language begins melting at the corners.
Sentences lose skeletal integrity.
Vowels elongate into pale ribbons.
Meaning slips its vertebrae
and slides soundlessly into the dark.
Still, there is something strangely exquisite
about becoming unfastened from oneself.
To feel the psyche soften.
To feel identity loosen like wet ribbon from a gift box.
To become briefly indistinct,
mercurial,
mouthless,
adrift beneath the narcotic fluorescence
of another sleepless dawn.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 3:29 PM UTC
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
I arrive at your silence
like a rain-damp alley cat
pressing its ribs against a stranger’s porch,
clawing pale little markings into the wood
just to prove
something living is still outside.
Inside, perhaps the television glows amber.
Perhaps laughter spills from your mouth
for everyone except me.
Perhaps you are asleep again,
curled deep in your cavernous den
like some winter-buried bear
dreaming through entire afternoons
while my messages fossilize beneath your screen.
You answer in scraps.
Pebbles.
Bottle caps.
A few exhausted phrases tossed down the stairwell.
“goodnight”
“im tired”
“my stomach hurts”
Nothing about the weather of your heart.
Nothing about whether you missed me too.
Meanwhile,
I hand you entire bouquets of myself.
I tell you where I vanished during the day,
what song made my throat ache,
how the sky looked bruised lavender
above the parking lot,
how I thought of you
every single hour
like a prayer bead slipping through nervous fingers.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Paw.
Now the claws retract.
Now I am only nudging the door
with velvet feet,
careful not to seem needy,
careful not to sound wounded,
careful not to apologize too much
because even my remorse
has become unbearable to you.
Do you know how difficult it is
to replace a reflex stitched into childhood?
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
The phrase hangs from me
like wet laundry.
You say it irritates you,
yet I was raised inside apology
the way some children are raised inside ritual.
So I begin scavenging for gentler language,
searching dictionaries at midnight
for synonyms soft enough
not to make you leave.
Still, the distance between us sours.
Only a month and eighteen days,
and already the warmth is thinning.
A trivial stretch of highway
for somebody less frightened than me.
If I still trusted vehicles
the way rivers trust bridges,
I think I would have driven to your doorstep already,
gas station coffee trembling in the cupholder,
heart knocking like loose machinery.
Instead,
I remain here,
pacing the perimeter of your absence.
Paw.
Paw.
Paw.
Sometimes I think
I was merely your complimentary trial period.
A month and eighteen days
before novelty expired.
Now I picture myself
among alley vermin and overturned trash bins,
another stray thing blinking beneath neon,
licking old affection from rusted cans.
And still, embarrassingly,
I adore you.
I adore you enough
to memorize the rhythm of your exhaustion.
Enough to notice
when your replies lose warmth
degree by degree
like tea abandoned on a windowsill.
You tell me your griefs freely.
I cradle them carefully.
I learn the anatomy of your bad nights,
the ache in your stomach,
the ghosts clawing through your head.
But when I unfold my own bruises,
you close like shutters.
Suddenly feelings are “too much.”
Suddenly vulnerability is “drama.”
Suddenly my storms become inconvenient weather.
So I swallow myself whole.
Meow.
Meow.
Meow.
The sound is quieter now.
Thin as steam escaping a kettle.
I keep trying to stitch the severance together
with trembling little threads:
another message,
another joke,
another cautious confession.
But affection cannot survive
on one pulse alone.
Even lanterns extinguish
when only one hand shields the flame.
Meow.
Cry.
Cry.
At night,
when your reply finally arrives
like a train limping through fog at 3 a.m.,
I stare at the screen’s ghostly glow
and wonder
how somebody can occupy my thoughts so completely
while I drift through theirs
like passing static.
Maybe this is the humiliating truth of longing:
one person builds homes from conversation,
the other leaves muddy footprints through the aisle.
And yet,
despite the exhaustion crusting beneath my eyes,
despite the ache of speaking into locked rooms,
some damaged and devoted part of me
still waits at your door.
Not clawing anymore.
Just sitting there quietly
beneath the porch light,
tail curled around my feet,
hoping the **** will finally turn.
…
…
…
Until then,
I will gather my small remaining warmth
like spilled beads from the carpet.
I will try a little longer.
Not forever.
Just long enough
to know I loved you honestly.
And if the silence keeps widening,
if your distance continues blooming
like mold across forgotten fruit,
then eventually
I will have to leave your doorstep behind.
Not because I stopped caring.
Because even stray cats learn
which houses will never let them in.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 5:36 PM UTC
I
The mind is a palimpsest of softened ink,
where names once carved in graphite authority
now blur into sedimented syllables.
I try to retrieve her face,
my middle-school best friend,
but memory returns it as negative space,
a photograph overexposed by time,
light eating the edges of her laughter.
II
There are rooms inside me
I no longer possess the keys for.
In one, my mother is folding sunlight into laundry.
In another, my voice is smaller,
unlearning how to apologize for existing.
I walk through these chambers
like a curator of abandoned exhibitions,
hands hovering over glass displays
that contain only the impression of objects.
III
What remains is not recall
but its residue:
a tremor of familiarity
when certain words pass through air,
a scent that insists it knew me first,
a street corner that refuses to confirm my history.
Even joy arrives mislabeled,
filed under something I cannot access.
IV
I make new days with meticulous devotion,
stacking them like translucent pages,
but the earlier volumes
have begun to unbind themselves
from the spine of my remembering.
And I grieve not only what is lost,
but the shape of loss itself,
how it changes me without permission.
V
Still, I am here
collecting fragments of a self
that keeps slipping its own archive.
If I cannot remember everything,
then I will become the quiet witness
to what remains anyway.
VI
Somewhere in this erosion,
I hope she is still intact,
my friend with a name I can almost hear,
standing in a season I cannot revisit
but still somehow miss.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 11:52 PM UTC
I do not ask you to echo my pulse,
or mirror the shallow glitter of skin.
Rival my yearn.
I have worn it thin as a rosary,
beads of breath counted in sleepless hours,
thumb pressed to each longing
until my fingerprints forgot themselves.
Tell me,
could you outlast this hunger?
I have starved beside full tables,
watched laughter pour like honeyed wine
into other mouths,
while mine held only the aftertaste of almost.
I have been orchard and winter at once,
branches bent with imagined fruit,
roots clutching frostbitten soil,
waiting for a sun that misremembers my name.
I do not crave just the fever of bodies,
the incendiary clasp, the fleeting conflagration
where limbs tangle like careless ivy.
Yes, I have dreamt of your skin
like silk drawn over a blade,
of closeness that dissolves the border
between your breath and mine.
But listen carefully.
Lust is a spark that devours its own oxygen.
Love is the sanctuary that remains
after the fire has forgotten how to burn.
I am on my knees in that vastness,
palms open, echoing.
I yearn for the quiet after laughter,
for the sacred ordinariness
of your shoulder against mine,
for the gravity of a shared silence
that does not need to be filled.
I yearn for a gaze that lingers
not because it is hungry,
but because it has found a home.
Do you understand?
You may take my body in your hands,
trace its cartography,
name every scar like a discovered star.
But you must love me more than you want me.
More than the urgency of midnight,
more than the ache that flickers and fades,
more than the easy language of touch.
Because I am not a moment.
I am a lifetime of reaching.
And still,
I stand here,
offering my trembling, inexhaustible ache
like a candle in a storm,
asking,
softly, impossibly.
Will you rival my yearn?
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 1:15 AM UTC
The question settles upon her collarbone,
fine as dandelion silk,
yet unwilling to ascend:
how long can an angel on earth endure?
Morning seeps in, pale and diluted,
a thin wash of honeyed gold
spreading across the edges of her waking.
She rises with weather in her ribs,
a hush of distant thunder
threaded through each careful breath,
as though her lungs remember storms
the sky refuses to confess.
Her room is small,
yet her thoughts are vast as open distance,
unfolding, unending,
each worry a low, tolling chime
that lingers far too long in the air.
She is composed of delicate things.
A voice like softened petals.
A heart of quiet glass.
A tenderness that overreaches,
spilling past the boundary of her own hands.
She loves as an open window in winter,
welcoming all that arrives,
even the cold that settles in her bones.
And the world
oh, the world
returns her warmth
with draft and splinter.
Still, she smiles
a fragile offering,
as though placing a lone candle
within a room that has never learned
the language of light.
Outside, the grass wears an unfamiliar hue,
green touched faintly with blue,
like something gently bruised.
Leaves curl inward,
keeping their secrets close,
as if truth itself were unsafe in the open.
Nothing rests where it should.
Even the sky forgets its own color.
She begins to suspect
that peace is a fable,
whispered between those
who have never lived a life like hers.
For every gentle arrival
carries a shadow in its keeping,
a quiet, patient undoing
waiting just behind the moment.
A laugh
dissolving into silence.
A hand
slipping into absence.
A promise
unraveling at the seam.
It is a pattern she knows intimately,
like a lullaby that falters before its end.
She has been losing things
since she first learned how to love them.
A home that never anchored.
A family that blurred like watercolors in rain.
A childhood tinged with the taste of departure.
Love, for her, is not light.
It is gravity.
It gathers,
it deepens,
it draws everything inward
until even her bones feel threaded with ache.
And still
she loves.
Still
she remains.
Still
she gathers her scattered luminance
and arranges it, carefully,
into something that resembles hope.
A long refrain, a slow, lilting song,
a winding ache she’s borne so long,
a quiet grief that lingers on,
yet she persists, she carries on.
The world turns louder with each passing day,
its restless machinery grinding against itself,
hearts colliding with hearts,
voices rising like distant sirens,
everything reaching, clashing, unraveling.
Even love has begun to resemble a battlefield.
And she stands within it,
barefoot,
feather-light,
wondering why gentleness
is treated as something fragile
instead of something sacred.
She worries in quiet multitudes.
Friends she cannot reach.
Family she cannot hold.
A future that stretches before her
like a soft and endless fog.
Her mind is a sky that never empties,
layer upon layer of drifting thought,
no horizon in sight.
And still
she looks upward.
For somewhere within her
there flickers a small, insistent star,
unwilling to be extinguished.
It trembles.
It falters.
Yet it remains.
Perhaps she was never meant
to pass through this world untouched.
Perhaps she was never meant
to comprehend its weight,
only to endure the carrying of it.
A borrowed child.
A wandering light.
A winged being instructed to walk
upon uncertain ground.
Not fallen.
Not forsaken.
Simply… here.
And perhaps
that, in itself,
is a quiet kind of wonder.
So how long can an angel endure?
Long enough
to outlast the nights that attempt to name her ending.
Long enough
to understand that even trembling light
is still, irrevocably, light.
Long enough
to feel, one day,
the hush she has been seeking
settle gently into her open palms
like something that has finally chosen
to stay.
And when her wings remember her,
when the weight loosens its hold,
when the sky opens
like a door that has always known her name,
she will not depart empty.
She will carry with her
every softened sorrow,
every fragile brightness,
every love she dared to give
in a world that seldom returned it.
For an angel is not measured
by how long she lasts,
but by how much light
she refuses to surrender
to the dark.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 3:16 AM UTC
I sit in the glow of my phone.
The light is pale against my face,
like early morning that never warms.
My poem rests on the screen,
small, fragile, waiting.
I tell myself
I will not check again.
But my thumb moves anyway,
pulling the page down,
like I am drawing water from a well
that never fills.
Numbers flicker:
one heart,
two,
then nothing.
I stare at it too long,
as if it might grow
if I watch closely enough;
as if it knows
I am here.
Somewhere out there,
people are laughing,
talking,
living.
And I am here,
counting.
I used to write on paper.
Ink soaking into the page,
slow, permanent.
No one could measure it;
no one could touch it,
except me.
Now everything feels borrowed,
like I have to earn the right
to call my words good.
I think about the people
I want to reach:
not everyone,
just the ones
who would read my lines twice,
who would pause,
who would feel something settle
quietly inside their chest.
But instead,
I hold my poem up
to a passing crowd,
and wait
for them to tell me
if it matters.
I hate that I do this.
Hate the way I refresh,
again,
again,
like scratching at a door
that does not open.
My words were never meant
to stand under bright lights.
They were meant
to sit beside someone,
in the quiet,
to be found,
not forced.
So I close the site.
Set the phone face down,
like covering a mirror.
And for a moment,
it is just me,
and the poem.
And it is enough.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
My body jitters like a cage full of trapped sparrows. My bones vibrate with a thin metallic ringing, as if someone struck my skeleton like a bell and forgot to stop the echo. My heart is not just beating, it is everywhere, ricocheting through my wrists, my knees, my teeth, a frantic percussion stitched into marrow. I do not know what happened. One moment the world was steady glass, the next it warped like heat above asphalt. I zoned out and when I came back the room had grown strange, tilted slightly, like gravity had been tampered with.
It has been hours. The clock crawls, stubborn and slow, but my body refuses to settle. The air feels electric, prickling against my skin like invisible static. I lie in the dark with my eyes open, watching the ceiling ripple into unfamiliar shapes. Sleep stands somewhere distant and unreachable, a pale animal at the edge of a frozen lake, watching but never approaching.
It is three in the morning and the night feels enormous. My nerves spark like frayed wires. Frustration burns under my ribs, a hot coal that refuses to dim. Anger coils through my chest like a storm serpent searching for a place to strike. Confusion spreads through my mind like spilled ink, blotting everything into strange, indistinct shapes.
My thoughts race in circles, frantic comets trapped in orbit. I want to scream. I want to tear the silence open and let something out of me, something loud and violent and bright. My body feels like it might burst into a thousand startled birds.
But nothing happens.
The room stays quiet. The night stays still.
And I sit here trembling, a vessel filled with too much thunder.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:33 AM UTC
The room tilts.
The ceiling liquefies into silver rain
and the walls breathe slowly,
like enormous sleeping lungs.
I taste copper clouds
coating my tongue.
Nicotine ghosts curl through my ribs,
whispering small electric promises.
My body becomes a hallway
too long for my footsteps.
Hands float somewhere behind me.
Legs drift like forgotten anchors
at the bottom of a black tide.
I am a lantern filled with fog.
The mind splinters into mirrors.
A thousand reflections whisper
Run.
Fly.
Dive.
Somewhere a dream opens its jaw.
Inside it
oceans spin upside down,
and I fall upward
through forests of neon coral
while the moon melts into syrup
over my skull.
Chemical constellations bloom
behind my eyes.
**** green smoke becomes vines,
climbing the cathedral of my lungs.
Liquor burns like tiny suns
rolling through my veins.
I chase them.
The glow.
The humming escape.
But the body grows distant,
a shoreline shrinking
through a foghorn of panic.
My pulse becomes a drum
lost in a cavern.
Someone inside me is screaming
into a pillow of clouds.
Someone inside me
is crying saltwater.
Someone inside me
keeps wandering corridors
with no doors.
The soul flickers like a faulty bulb.
Everything feels
odd
crooked
sideways.
Reality loosens its stitches.
I wander through hallucinated gardens
where flowers have teeth
and gravity forgets my name.
I am chasing the horizon
with shaking hands.
Trying to catch
that one bright second
where the sky opens
and I finally
escape.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 10:05 AM UTC