I did not come to this earth
to die for the shadow of a dream,
to impale my heart on the sharp thorns
of ambition’s endless rose.
No, I came to live inside the quiet rivers,
to carry the soft weight of the morning’s light
in my hands,
to bury my face in the soil of ordinary days
and rise, fragrant with their whispers.

I did not seek perfection;
perfection is a cruel wind
that bends no branch,
allows no blossom to fall.
Instead, I search for the cracks—
those holy fractures
where the light sings its way in,
where life spills like wine
across the trembling lips of the world.

We are fluent in pain,
each of us holding the dialect of loss
in our bones.
I have read the script of your tears,
seen my own reflection
in the glass of your breaking.
Your heart is a book I know by touch,
each page etched with sorrow
and the tender thumbprints of hope.

I do not long for glory—
glory is a fleeting bird
with a broken wing.
I long for the quiet threads
that sew the sacred to the common:
the bread shared at a wooden table,
the warmth of a hand that holds without asking,
the beauty of a scar kissed by time.

There is a beauty in suffering,
a beauty that does not demand mending.
It stands like a mountain at dusk,
silent and untouchable.
It does not cry for transcendence,
but for the gaze of another,
for the voice that says,
“I am here.
I will not turn away.”

Let us walk,
not as conquerors,
but as pilgrims,
our feet stained by the dust of this earth.
Let us stumble,
our burdens carried not in shame
but as offerings,
as gifts to one another.
We will not flee the ache of life—
no, we will drink it,
pour it into the chalice of the stars,
and watch it glow softly,
a lantern that whispers,
“We are here.
We are enough.”

The night splits open like an old wound,
your hands press against the ache,
unweaving the heaviness that clings to me.

Beneath your skin, a constellation whispers—
rebellion wrapped in light,
I surrender to its pull.

Your eyes, sharp as memory,
hold truths I cannot name.

They sing of battles and soft winds,
of hunger that does not apologize.

Each layer you shed is a testimony,
your touch, a reckoning—
both fire and balm.

I follow the shadowed path you carve,
your voice like a spell
that gathers all my scattered pieces.

Your fingertips rewrite my grief,
turning my silences into stars.

You are the architect of my unbecoming,
the pulse of my reclamation.

In your arms, the axis shifts,
a fierce hymn rising from quiet.

You unlace the day with a deliberate breath,
and I let myself love you—
not for reason,
but because resistance feels futile
in the face of you.

The stitches holding my wound break, one by one,

For the memory of you is a blade upon my flesh.

I gave you my heart as the river gives to the sea,

And you returned it, torn, yet heavy with your shadow.

Now I carry both the pain and the wisdom it has sown.

The sky folds itself into a bruise,
spilling red streaks like arteries unzipped.
A comet breaks,
its ribs dragging fire through the dark,
and she swallows her wish,
a coin sinking in the throat of a well.

Her hands—
sharp vowels of bone,
cracked knuckles learning
the grammar of pain—
pounded earth
like it owed her a name.
She made fists out of her loneliness
because no one ever taught her
to bloom.

Mistakes:
the geometry of hurt,
a language she spoke fluently.
Once, she carved shame
from a girl smaller than herself.
But wasn’t that just a mirror,
a lesson she couldn’t unlearn?

**** forgiveness,
**** the easy absolutions.
Her body was a script no one read.
Her name was a slur
the world muttered in passing.
She carried choices
like glass splinters in her lungs,
each one cutting
when she tried to breathe.

Whiskey breath,
a kiss smeared on the lip of a bottle—
she called it love.
They called it sin.
Disposable girls
folded like paper swans
in the flood of a system
too tired to save them.

When they found her,
her body curled into itself,
a fist unmade—
the river murmured her elegy,
pulled its fingers through her hair
as if apologizing for the weight
it couldn’t carry.