white dove sheds feathers,

drifting through the silent dark,

contrast of lost wings.

snow white egrets glide,  

tip-toeing through reeds so green,  

morning whispers peace.

We hold each other,  
skin to skin,  
the warmth wraps around us,  
a fragile cocoon,  
where the outside world  
dissolves into whispers,  
and silence breathes life  
into our shared solitude.  

No one has ever
wanted me  
with such depth,  
not even death,  
with its icy allure  
and promises of stillness.  
Yet here, in the rhythm of our
b
r
e
a
t
h
  s,  
I find a quiet refuge,  
a heartbeat echoing mine,  
each sigh a silent plea  
for the closeness that binds us.  

In the shadows we linger,  
two souls woven together,  
red threads of longing stitched  
into the fabric of this moment,  
reminding me that even in the dark,  
there is a flicker of warmth.  
In this tender intimacy,  
I am seen,  
a whisper of connection  
that lingers in the air,  
soft and resplendent,  
a reminder that love,  
fragile yet fierce,  
can illuminate the quiet spaces  
between us.

swan glides through the mist,  

rippling glass of tranquil lakes,  

nature's breath in peace.

love's bright burst ignites,  

apologies in the night,  

lust fades with dawn's light.

In the soft twilight of memory’s embrace,  
I seek atonement,
tiny
                          deaths
  unfurling,  
Razor-edged thoughts like whispers in the dark,  
Conquering hearts that

                                once dared to hope,  
Silencing dreams,  
Like black balloons adrift
over
                    coffee
                                                   rings,  

Cigarette ash lingering on
        pages
                         untouched.  

Words spill forth, a torrent against distance,  
Flies dance in the air,
avoiding the hand,  
While the staircase of my
mind
                   spirals
                                         down,  
Addicting depression folds into fleeting mania,  
I wander
fields of dreams,  
Color
                                      stripped
             ­                                                                 ­ away,  
Longing for silence wrapped in hues,  
Choking on

dawn’s memories, 
 
Lessons etched in fragments of existence,  
Creation fading like the
last
               light
                                  of
                                                    day.  

Br­eathless, she races toward the morrow,  
Where sheeted ghosts
twirl in a spectral waltz,  
Eternal waves crash on the
jagged shore,  

And in that chaos,

she  
                                   finds
                                                                ­     marvel,  
Little bubbles caught just
beneath the surface,  
As her bones crumble,
returning to dust.  

No borders to past mistakes,  
Suicide whispers of contrition

—a war of regrets,  

Suffering, the promise of becoming,  
Pain painted as                      
                                        ­                       smiles,  
In the sacred loop of confusion's grasp.

Calla lilies bloom,  

white snow on a black canvas,  

grace in shadows' hold.

fight club rage consuming—
circle breathes (tightens),
pavement whispers—skin’s
delicate scream unwinding.

(fists) crash
into self-destruction,
blood sings
its red forever.

hate carves itself into fists,
teeth scatter
like stars (broken
and free). voices
rise/fall:
a hymn to
becoming.

eyes (swim)
in dizzy skies,
head a fragile
planet turning turning.

rage blooms into meditation.
splits heal to split again,
knuckles learning the
art of (necessary) undoing.

the world shrinks to
bone & breath,
a body alive
only in breaking.

swallows in twilight,  

burnt oranges kiss the sky,  

silhouettes take flight.

My mind, ruminating,
thoughts eating themselves,
snaking longer, longer,
like that old Nokia phone,
remember?
The game we played—
winning meant losing space,
meant swallowing whole.

I can’t stop it.
No off switch.
No pause, no rewind.
Memory flickers, a broken reel,
an unreliable witness in my own courtroom.
Why did I disassociate?
To survive, to vanish?
Was I drunk on innocence,
or did I crave your love so much
I kept my mouth shut,
called my silence devotion?

You—
standing there in my shadow,
writing your story over mine,
turning my quiet into consent.
But I was always spinning,
always folding inward,
splintering.

Now I haunt the game,
chasing the tail of what I was,
swallowed by the loop,
still wondering
if I’ll ever find the center.

She shattered like a ripe pomegranate,  
its crimson seeds spilling  
on that frostbitten morning,  
where daylight carved truth  
into her skin,  
each ray a scalpel,  
each breath a confession.

Unraveled, she lay bare,  
a manuscript of scars,  
love’s futile battles  
etched in dried blood,  
bones jutting like the last  
frayed edges of a dream.

Tattoos inked in shadows,  
quivering black on alabaster,  
the ghost of him lingered,  
his fingerprints seared  
into her flesh,  
a haunting memory  
before the silence claimed him.

He was the prophet,  
the muse woven through lifetimes,  
departing like a forgotten flame,  
his whispers curling  
in the suffocating dark.  

We are all adrift,  
lost in the labyrinth of ourselves,  
struggling to stitch together  
the frayed seams of commitment.  
He extinguished his will to survive,  
lost in the wilderness  
of self-destruction.

Her belly, heavy with unspoken dreams,  
intoxicated by promises,  
the poison lingering from his kiss.  
She bottled his anguish,  
teardrops mingling with time,  
an elixir of shared stories,  
each drop a memory,  
each memory a shard of light.

Through the years,  
in the tapestry of shadows,  
somewhere we will meet again,  
forever my keeper,  
forever my ghost.

round waterlily,  

fragile holding above surface,  

dancing with the light.

Ebony branches,  

holding back teardrop whispers,  

night's sorrowful sighs.

golden shadows drift,

ripples cradle mirrored scales,

silent sunlit dance.

Your hands rise,
lifting me like the sun lifts the sea,
like roots pressing upward
through the weight of the earth.

Soft, yet forged in fire,
they carry the echoes of old wars,
eyewitnesses to the quiet battles
fought behind closed doors,
where love and labor
bleed into one another.

These hands have sewn the sky together,
stitched the open wound of hunger,
performed CPR on broken dreams,
forcing life breath to breath
into what the world tried to abandon.

They have held me when I was
spiraling out of control,
when the weight of existence
pressed into my chest
like an ocean refusing to let go.

I have seen them whisper over water,
stirring secrets into steam,
curiosity flickering in their fingertips
as they trace the edges of another day.
Unforgettable memories live in their creases—
the hush of a mother brushing fevered skin,
the press of fingers that say,
I am here. You will not fall.

Oh, hands of women, hands of warriors,
who write history into my skin,
who lift me, who hold me,
who do not ask for thanks—
only the courage to go on.

colors spill softly,

rainbow bridge greets the still sky,

light bends into peace.

A gloved hand, steady and unyielding,
pressed against the soft pulse of life,
fluttering hearts foretell the burst,
a silent pact woven in electric tension.

Behind delicate eyelids,
worlds collide, dissolve, reform,
rising from the depths,
a forbidden tide pulling desire
to its precarious edge.

Breath stolen, then surrendered,
each moment teetering
between creation and collapse,
a tightrope of euphoria and silence.

The veil lifts—brief, fragile,
revealing something raw,
the seduction of release,
a fleeting eternity
that leaves the air trembling.

When the hold loosens,
lungs fill with awakening,
yet the mind lingers,
craving the abyss it briefly called home.

Ready to shock unconscious—
a scream locked in my chest,
a storm swirling where love should have been.
Forsaken.
Forgotten.
Black wings fold tight against my eyes,
dragging me to the place
where breath turns to silence,
and hearts go to break.

If you had an inkling,
even the faintest whisper
that I existed,
why didn’t you look for me?
Why didn’t you fight the tide,
pull me from the hollow space
where I learned to disappear?

Why was I the one who searched,
who fought,
embarrassing myself
for your love?
I stood in the open,
raw,
bleeding,
hands stretched toward a ghost
that never turned back.

I wasn’t a black hole,
wasn’t an absence.
I was flesh,
I was blood,
I was here.

Maybe we could have danced in the light,
or I could have played tag
with your sons in the long grass.
But instead,
I became the shadow
you refused to see.

And now that it’s all been said and done,
the bitter truth cuts deeper—
it turns out
I’m the one who resembles you the most.

Half my life
I wandered,
seeking a name
that could fit into my chest.
Yours.
Mine.
Ours.

But you never came.
The silence stayed.
And black wings
are all that’s left to hold me.

skeleton leaf rests,

veins trace whispers of autumn,

time pressed between lines.

The weight of my truths
presses like stone—
no flood, no release,
only this grinding ache
against the sharp edge of language.

Each word is a wound reopened,
a splinter of myself
held to the light.
Silence is complicit,
it does not absolve,
only deepens the scar.

If my darkness stains you,
if the truth catches like barbed wire,
tear your gaze away—
this is not a plea for witness.
This is survival,
the slow unraveling
of a story that refuses erasure.

Do you doubt my suffering?
Do you doubt the sediment
of years pressed into me,
the residue of what I was?

What more can I give you
than this blood-inked offering,
this heartbeat fractured
between words,
pauses,
and the spaces you fail to see?

Let me remain unwhole—
not yet healed—
but forging the threads
that might someday
bind me to the surface
I cannot yet reach.

silken petals sway,

yellow pollen dusts white grace—

night whispers goodbye.