The sixteen-year-old dishwasher at work told me she checks the schedule-hoping we’ll share the same shifts. She said she missed me when I took a day off.

A new hire said I have a “wholesome vibe,” like it was the kindest thing he could offer.

A new friend and I sat in his new room, talking about how hard it is to make friends as adults-how rare it is when it feels this easy.

My best friend, miles away, messages to say she got the postcard I sent. She says she loves me.

The one I’m dating tells me I can make mistakes without being a mistake.

A stranger-turned-friend listed all the things she liked about me-minutes after we met. I didn’t know what to say. I smile for hours.

My six-year-old cousins video call me, bursting with stories about their day with my parents. They wave a pride flag on a picnic blanket in the backyard, proud of their brave big cousin. They correct anyone who calls me by my deadname like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

My mom checks in.
She knows it’s been a heavy week.

My dad spends his free time under the hood of my car, my mom hands me her keys so I don’t have to worry.

I visit an old friend's memorial, tell him everything I wish I could have said in person. The wind listens. I think he does, too.

My best friend and I scream old songs in the car, drive to a park by the water, swing until we’re dizzy and aching, and laugh because we’re not kids anymore-but we still want to feel like it.

Another friend is moving out on his own. He asks me to help him make the space feel like home. I say yes, of course. It's an honor.

A best friend and I trade 'I miss yous' like warm hugs un words.

I buy concert tickets for another best friend. It’s one of my favorite artists. We’ll sing ourselves hoarse.

I text my childhood best friend: Happy Pride. Two words that carry years.

I go to a Pride party with my parents and friends. I feel the weight of belonging and it is light.

I plan to trade plants with a girl from work. Roots change hands. Something grows.

And for a moment-no, longer than a moment-I realize:I am overflowing with love.

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

Hello, I'm Dawnevyn River (he/they), a transmasculine poet living in a country carved from stories not of its own, where the light falls long and thoughts run deep. My work is rooted in the raw terrain of trauma, mental illness, neurodivergence, queer identity, and the quiet astonishment of simply being alive.

I began sharing my poetry on Hello Poetry in 2014, a teenager spilling truth into open space. Those early pieces, now archived, were a lifeline then. Today, I return with a steadier hand and a deeper voice - writing that reflects the growth, grief, and grace of adulthood.

These poems are both survival tools and love letters to the ordinary. I invite you to walk with me through the small, sacred moments we often overlook, and to find, together, a kind of beauty in the everyday.

It really terrifies me, you know? The fact that you already know me so well and eventually you'll know me inside and out. Letting people in has never been an easy task for me. I always hated the idea of the other person having an upper hand, something to hold over me. You know my favorite songs and how my eyes will light up if you were ever to turn them on in your car. You know my favorite books and the parts I read more than once, just because they were that good. You know how I like my poetry, emotion so tense and raw you can cut it with a knife. You know the way I awkwardly laugh when I can't find the words to explain my thoughts to you. You know what I don't like about myself, but more importantly, you know what I love about myself. You know of the things I don't really like to talk about and you understand, you understand the way I've hurt. You know the movies I like and which ones I have on replay. You know that on most days, I'm one wrong move away from insane, but you like me anyways. You know that I tell a lot of pointless stories but you still look at me with a fire in your eye, as if I'm telling you your favorite story from when you were a child. You know of my dark past but you also know of my bright future. You know of the way I once hated myself and beat myself up, you now know of the way I love myself and treat my body like a temple. You know of the stupid stories from when I was a child and you somehow find them funny. You know of my goals, my dreams, and where I hope to see myself one day. You know of my flaws, my imperfections, and my little mishaps. You know of the weird habits I have that I would rather not have most people aware of... I must ask, "Why me?"

If I were ever
to damage
myself
it would only be
so that I
could bleed
poetry.