God wants something from me.
I don’t know what.
But it isn’t this.
It isn’t peace.
It isn’t sleep.

He calls it a purpose
I call it a sentence.
And maybe that's blasphemy.
But I’m too tired to care about heaven.

Every day, I wake up
inside a body that never asked to exist.
And I carry a name
that feels like someone else’s mistake.

The world keeps turning,
not out of beauty,
but because no one knows how to stop it.
It wants me to smile,
to adapt,
to bow.
I won’t.

Not out of courage
but because I no longer know how to pretend.

If I had the pen,
God would be a child,
crying in the dark,
begging someone to answer.

And no one would come.

I save people
because no one ever came for me.

Because every time I reach for someone else,
I forget-briefly
that I’m still drowning.

It’s not nobility.
It’s not grace.
It’s the only way I know how to stay alive
without admitting I don’t want to be.

As long as I’m helping someone else
pull their pain out of their chest,
I don’t have to look
at the blade still in mine.

But the worst part is this:
One day, I won’t be able to save them.
And when that day comes,
I won’t know how to save myself either.

And I don’t think anyone else will,
or would.

written by the woman who can barely breathe without you

I don't know how to say this without falling apart.
But I need you to know something  I need you to understand:

I don’t know if I’ll ever be your mother.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of the kind of love you could give me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough.

I feel it, all the time.
This emptiness. This crushing silence inside me that says: You’re not enough. You won’t ever be enough.
And every time I feel that, I think of you.
You, the child I dream of but can never reach.
I’m afraid I’ll never hold you.
I’m afraid that no matter how much I want you, no matter how many tears I shed for you, I’ll never be the kind of woman who can bring you into this world.

I want to scream and shout and beg the universe to let me have you.
But the universe doesn’t listen to desperate prayers.
It doesn’t care how many times my heart shatters when I think of how much I want you.
It doesn’t care that I would give everything -every single piece of myself , just to hold you.

I wasn’t born into soft love.
I wasn’t born into a place that made me feel safe enough to dream of motherhood.
I had to fight for every inch of my soul.
I had to scrape myself together from pieces no one else wanted.
I had to learn how to survive in a world that kept telling me I was too much or too little, too loud or too quiet.
And sometimes, I’m so **** tired of surviving.

I’m tired of living in a world where I feel like a stranger to myself.
I’m tired of trying to fit into roles I wasn’t meant to play.
I’m tired of being strong when all I want to do is collapse into someone’s arms and say, I am lost. Help me find my way home.

But here I am.
Trying.
Every single day.
Trying to make myself whole enough to love you.
Trying to be enough to give you the home I never had.
Trying to figure out how to stop feeling like I’m drowning in the fear of not being able to make it.
But it’s hard.
God, it’s so hard.

I’m afraid I’ll never be the woman who can give you everything you deserve.
I’m afraid that maybe my past is too broken to heal in time.
I’m afraid that you’ll never exist, and I’ll never get to prove to you that I would have loved you more than anything.

If you ever come, if life ever gives me that miracle, I’ll be ready.
I’ll be ready to give you all the love I’ve learned to build, piece by piece.
I’ll be ready to show you the things I never had the chance to learn -the things that hurt me, and the things that healed me.
But until then, I’ll just keep hoping.
And waiting.
And trying.
Even when it feels like I’m failing.
Even when it feels like the universe is laughing in my face.

I don’t know if I’ll make it to motherhood.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to hold you.
But I can’t stop wanting you.
I can’t stop needing you.
I can’t stop the ache that never goes away.

And if I never get the chance to meet you, to love you the way I’ve dreamed
just know I will carry you with me, always.
I will carry you in my heart, even if it’s just a ghost of you.
And I will never stop loving you.
No matter what.
Even if you’re never born, even if I never get to see your face, I will always love you.

Always.
Your future mother,
who is learning to hope in the dark

I drown myself in tasks,
pour coffee five times a day,
so even in those brief seconds,
my hands are not idle, my mind not still.

I raise the music to a scream,
to drown the voice that gnaws,
the voice that sounds like you.

I write and write and write,
so I do not reach for you,
so my fingers find ink instead of absence.

I do the things I do not wish to do,
fill the silence with motion,
but still
you slip into my sleep,
a ghost pressing its weight upon my chest.

The skin finally spoke to the skeleton:
“The truth never reached the heart,
it only bruised the surface
purple memories, too heavy to hold,
too fleeting to remember.”

“But did it reach you?”
the skeleton asked,
“Did it leave you the way it left me?”

The skin hesitated,
as if the healing could never erase
what it had become.

And the skeleton whispered,
“I carry the cracks.
What broke you
is still bleeding in me."

I drown myself in tasks,
pour coffee five times a day,
so even in those brief seconds,
my hands are not idle, my mind not still.

I raise the music to a scream,
to drown the voice that gnaws,
the voice that sounds like you.

I write and write and write,
so I do not reach for you,
so my fingers find ink instead of absence.

I do the things I do not wish to do,
fill the silence with motion,
but still
you slip into my sleep,
a ghost pressing its weight upon my chest.

What is success worth,
If it leads me to solitude’s embrace?
What is the purpose of words,
If my muse fades with every breath,
A fleeting ghost I can never grasp?
Was I destined to bleed ink,
To spill my soul on blank pages,
Only to wonder if this agony is the reason I exist?
What does God ask of me,
To pour my essence into a world that doesn't see?
I no longer yearn for a muse
Who leaves me empty,
But for a fire to consume me,
A love that will burn my poetry to the ground,
Where sorrow finds no home,
And my ink is no longer a sacrifice.