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.

Beneath the weight of the moment,
fractured seconds linger like echoes,
etched into the hollows of my mind.
Most things dissolve,
consumed by the hungry tides of forgetting,
but not this—
not the way you made me feel.

Small.
Insignificant.
The air stolen from my lungs
as life unraveled, thread by thread.
I lay there,
the world shrinking,
your gaze an avalanche,
your silence a knife.

It wasn’t the darkness that stayed—
it was the sharpness of being
discarded, diminished, erased.

I will not forget.
The universe has ways
of balancing its scales.
And when it does,
may you feel what I felt—
every fragment of it.

My beloved,

you who stand beside me in the quiet hours of my despair,

do you not see the burden I carry?

It is not of the body, for the body endures;

it is of the soul,

woven with threads of fear and longing.

You speak to me with the voice of the wind,

soft yet unyielding,

and your words rise like a tide
against the cliffs of my sorrow.

In your calm, I find a mirror to my tempest,

and in your silence, the wisdom I have long sought.

These battles we fight are not waged with swords,

nor are they seen by the eyes of men.

They are the wars of the spirit,

where darkness wrestles with light,

and the heart is both the battlefield and the victor.

Do not pity my scars,

for they are the sigils of my becoming.

Do not fear my tears,

for they water the garden of my resilience.

The future stretches before us like an endless sky,

painted with the colors of our dreams and fears.

And though I have spoken of death,

it is life that calls me forward,

its voice a whisper, a song, a command.

Together we walk, you and I,

not toward an ending,

but toward a beginning of an unknown future.

I found a photo today—
its edges frayed,
its silence speaking louder than memory.
The ghost of her,
born of pain but draped in a soft, unknowing light.
How could she not see?
The naïve tilt of her mouth,
the unarmored gaze of someone
who believed in futures made of love.

I would step into that stillness if I could,
shake her shoulders,
tell her to run before the lies
knotted themselves around her ribs,
before his dagger—
not sharp, but slow,
pierced the center of her trust.

I would tell her to proclaim love
where it mattered,
to her daughter watching silently,
to the family she left in the shadows
for a man who swallowed the light.
Every day, her daughter saw it—
the slow dying,
a death stretched across years,
not swift but unrelenting,
like a clock with no hands to stop it.

Run, I’d say,
before the hollow gestures,
before the waiting
for a love that never belonged to you.
See through him,
his promises fragile as dried leaves,
his truths curving away like smoke.

But now I hold the photo,
and she is already gone,
a ghost I can only argue with
in the quiet of my mind,
a ghost who will never hear me.

he loves me only as a sister—
frail petals fall, their whispers
fractured, bending beneath
the weight of a maybe, a
no.

he loves me (only as a friend)
the echo shifts, a restless
shadow, lingering in the hollow
of what could never bloom.

he loves me (but)—
attraction's embers fade,
a pale ghost of something
once alive, now gray; he
loves (me) not enough
to stay.

he loves me (yet cannot
see) beneath the mirror's skin,
the ugliness I carry,
the cracks I cradle within.

he loves me (only a memory),
childhood’s games replay
in sepia tones,
their laughter a distant
ache in the marrow of my bones.

he loves me (how I bow
to his words)—sharp shards
of blame and fire, I
surrender, a captive
to his bruising choir.

he loves me (he loves me not)
the daisy wilts in silent
confession,
a question unraveling
into dust.

Watercolours smear across the sky,
Dreams painted in fleeting strokes,
Set alight by the smallest hope,
A spark carried in tiny hands.

Prayers whispered into the wind,
Words too soft, yet insistent,
Chasing after fugitive moments,
Seeking solace in the unknown.

The world presses, sharp and relentless,
Leaving scabs where innocence once lived.
But even in pain, the child persists,
Each wound a quiet rebellion.

We hold on, hearts stained with wonder,
Refusing to let the colours fade,
Resisting the weight of what we lose,
Forever painting light into the dark.

Pastel hoops swirl, a hollowed refrain,
Milk pools cold, a quiet stain.
Laughter lingers, ghosts in the air,
I reach, but they’re no longer there.

Black wings flicker, hunger’s sigh,
But control whispers: "Let it die."
At this table, time unfolds,
An empty heart, a story untold.

Beneath the scars, a pregnant hope grows,

A fragile light where forgiveness flows.

The past may linger, but hearts can mend,

Healing blooms where brokenness ends,

And pain gives way to love that knows.

behind glass she sits,

swallows dart through falling rain,

dreams take flight with them.

Born and raised with smiles,
but the sky was always cracked.
Pills shatter in my hand—
fragile ghosts of sleep.
Unreliable… like time slipping sideways.

Scars rise in dreams,
whispering their secrets to the dark.
I’ve got you now—
you, the shadow, the mirror,
stroking my nerves to rest,
to quiet the beast inside.

I remember you as a crush,
when the sun burned softer,
when the roads seemed endless.
Now I hold you,
a treasure,
a puzzle.

Piece by piece, I feel you—
bursting with words,
breaking the silence,
rewriting the dream.

There is only pain. He held her hands,
thin-*****, trembling, bird-brittle,
like the last leaves,
too tired to fall.

The prosaic life,
a numbing inventory of dull tasks—
each line scarring deeper,
the paper tearing.

They said she was dead,
perhaps in jest,
but her history whispered otherwise:
the needle’s hymn,
the razor’s sharp alphabet,
a body taught the language of harm.

He dreamed once of poems—
bright-winged things—
but they fell, crushed,
their syllables too thin
to shoulder the weight of her silence.

To be kind, to be gentle,
is to wound oneself slowly,
a quiet hemorrhage.
Even when it hurts, more,
especially then.

Surgically precise,
the wound splits open, spilling infinity—
a sea without shores,
a secret tide drawn to you,
even as you slip into shadows,
even as you hide.

No guilt here.
This love is raw,
tender and savage,
marking its place like an animal,
teeth bared, claws carving
territory into flesh.

It’s a secret affair,
a slow destruction.
The unknown swallows us whole,
pulls us under where Adonis waits—
child of adultery,
questioning the myths
that made him beautiful
and broken.

She wore an agate gaze, flawless,
dreaming in shades of gold,
feathered wings brushing her
like promises too soft to believe.
He shaped her,
molding her chaos into quiet flame.

Hesitations—
lost in the echoes,
identity adrift like smoke.
We halt, we fold inward,
bruised and aching,
carrying our scars
like riddles in the dark.

Always,
a kiss goodbye,
a whisper that lingers,
a fleeting touch of the divine
before it’s gone.