You hid her like a folded paper bird
tucked behind your ribs
a secret even your shadows
were too afraid to name.

But sometimes, when the world grew quiet,
she’d press her palm to the glass of your eyes:
a flash of laughter sharp as April rain,
a question whispered to the moon
(“Will you hurt me?”)
before you locked her back inside.

I learned to watch for her.
When you’d still, a heartbeat too long,
your voice a pendulum between yes and no,
I’d leave honeyed words on the windowsill
“It’s safe here. The night is just a blanket.
Come out, and we’ll name the stars something silly.”

You built her a fortress of “not yet” and “no one stays,”
but I swear I heard her humming once
barefoot, half-alive,
tracing circles on the cold linoleum
while you slept.

I wanted to give her the world:
a room without echoes,
a door that didn’t bruise her knuckles,
a morning where you’d both wake
and not know whose breath
was whose.

Now, I imagine her still there
the only hymn your heart ever sang true,
the uncaged thing that made you
more than just survival.
I hope she knows:
when I traced the scars on your armor,
I was searching for her fingerprints
the girl who turned your blood to wildfire,
who painted galaxies in the hollows
you called empty.
She wasn’t a fragment. She was the lens.
Through her, I saw you:
unflinching, unmasked,
alive.

I’ve carried chaos
like a keychain
noisy as my home;
but lately,
I’ve found doors
opening
into spaces
I call mine.

Each step
is a quiet arrival
into freedom,
unlocking peace
like rooms
filled gently
with silence,
a stillness
I’ve dreamed of.

In the park,
nature unfolds
tiny worlds
beneath my fingertips
grass whispering green,
trees stretching slowly,
animals stitching
quiet stories
into earth’s tapestry.

I paint
the poetry
of sunlight on leaves,
tracing colors
only nature knows;
each brushstroke
a soft conversation
between my heart
and the quiet
of the world.

Here,
I feel earth turning.
a gentle rotation
underneath my feet
grounding me,
steadying my soul,
reminding me
I belong
exactly
where peace
meets freedom.

This is my sanctuary,
the place
where chaos
melts quietly
into creativity
where poems bloom
like wildflowers,
and my thoughts
finally feel
like home.

There’s an old house
at the edge of my memory,
paint faded to whispers,
roof weathered
by quiet storms
no one else sees.

I still walk past
each evening,
pausing where roses
once bloomed,
petals lost gently
to seasons
we didn’t notice
were changing.

Windows darkened,
but reflections remain
ghosts of laughter,
voices that felt
like candles
in empty rooms,
glowing softly
with something
I still can’t name.

Inside, silence
gathers like dust
over tables set
for conversations
we never finished,
chairs waiting
patiently
for someone
to come home.

And though doors
have quietly closed,
I keep a single key
pressed against my chest
a quiet promise
never broken,
held softly
in the hollow
between missing
and letting go.

Maybe someday
you’ll pass this way,
notice curtains
move slightly
like breath,
and wonder
who lives
in the spaces
we left empty

only then realizing
it was you.