they say
"i don’t get it."
as if the words I write are puzzles
and not seances
with the bones of my childhood.

they want metaphors that purr,
not ones that bleed.
Many don't like
teeth in the fruit.

my poems are not
for mouths that chew politely.
they are for those
who’ve sat inside silence
and still carry
the shape of the scream.

Writing is the equvalent of
plucking out the wires
stitched into my throat
and spelling out
a map
for anyone who’s ever felt
too much
to speak.

so no,
you don’t have to get it.

this was never for the ones
who only read
with their eyes.

do you still dress up your sadness
or have you seated it in the corner table
to eat with the children?
funny thing about tables and tears is
they get absorbed into the wood
because no one is going to notice the spill
in time to wipe you up.
it’ll just be an unsightly mark
where the wood swells with your sadness.

long gone are the insects
you forgave my dear
don't rent your heart out
to too many ghosts.

fear is a feast,
my teeth stained purple
from eating bruises—
and i am always
carcass picked clean
by second thoughts.

love?
love is a butcher at the market,
smiling sweet
while weighing out a heart
i can't afford.
it's an executioner—
it asks me to place my own head
on the block—
to kneel before joy
as if it will not
tear me limb for limb
when it tires
of my trembling.

i am fearless among ruins,
skinning my knees
on broken chapels,
yet i fear hands
that thread stitches into my ruin
with the patience
of a surgeon,
and breath that curls in my mouth,
making me taste futures
i am too cowardly
to swallow.



i survive loneliness
like a vulture survives drought—
tight-bellied,
sharp-eyed,
full of memory.

but hope—
hope pours syrup
into my lungs
and calls it resurrection.

hope convinces me
that i want love—
but
only if it promises
not to break
what it finds.

Once upon a time, there were five children who weren’t really children.
They were neglected feelings wearing borrowed skin and convictions of no needs.

The first was a boy who felt nothing at all.
He walked through life like a ghost no one remembered dying.
They called him cold, but he was just tired
Of dripping in places no one would whipe.
Inside, he wanted someone to knock on the door he bolted shut.
But no one ever stayed long enough to try.


The second was a dog who was always smiling.
People passed by and said, “What a happy little thing.”
But they put a leash around its neck and called it loyalty.
It wagged its tail even when it hurt,
because someone once told it love is earned through obedience.
So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No one returns.


The third was a boy who swallowed his nightmares.
He thought if he ate them all,
they’d go away.
But they grew inside him like weeds—
and some nights, he screamed in his sleep,
his belly full of bells no one could hear.

The fourth was a hand—
just a hand.
It wanted everything.
It grabbed and gripped and begged to be filled.
But everything it touched turned into something else:
a kiss became a bruise,
a hug became a choke.
The hand never asked, only took.
And still, it was always hungry.


The fifth wore a mask.
A lovely one.
Shiny eyes, soft lips, laughter stitched just right.
She wore it so long,
she forgot who lived underneath.
When people loved her,
she wondered who they were loving.
So she smiled harder.
And disappeared a little more each day.

One by one,
they wandered into the Forest of Almost.

They didn’t mean to meet each other.
They were just looking for silence
that didn’t hurt.

They didn’t speak at first.
They only sat—close, but not touching.
Each one pretending not to notice
how the others looked like pieces of them.

The boy who felt nothing
was the only one who saw the dog’s leash.
The girl with the mask
was the only one who saw the nightmares blooming under the boy’s skin.
The greedy hand trembled when the smiling dog licked it gently,
as if even hunger deserved kindness.

And slowly,
they did what no one else had done for them:

They stayed.

Not to fix.
Not to save.
Just to be.

And maybe that was the magic.
Because in the Forest of Almost,
they didn’t become whole—
but they did become real.

And sometimes,
real is the bravest thing you can be.

Once,
they handed her a map—
blank,
except for the words:
“You are here.”

But here kept shifting.
One day, it was sorrow
shaped like a fox
with silver fur and eyes like unspoken apologies.
The next, it was joy—
a balloon beast that floated just out of reach,
tied to a string knotted around her ribcage.

She wandered.

Through the Forest of Almosts,
past the Swamp of Not-Yets,
into the valley where shame
whispered her name backward
so she wouldn’t recognize herself.

She wore her fears like jewelry.
Polished it.
Let it glint in the dark.

She met Anger
It didn’t scream.
It built towers from her old voices
and dared her to climb
without a rope.

She met Silence, too—
it moved like fog
and tasted like metal.
It offered her tea
and made her weep into her own hands
without asking why.

And still, she walked.

One night,
the moon opened a door in the ground.
She fell into a forest
with no sky,
where trees grew upside-down
and every path looked like a wound.

At the center,
she found a mirror
half-buried in the belly of a tree.

It didn’t show her face.
It showed her story—
stitched from shadows and second chances,
frayed,
but still holding.

And for the first time,
she didn’t want to erase anything.

She folded the blank map
into a boat.
Set it in the river.
And walked home—
not knowing the way,
but knowing she was the compass.