Wings linger
in the breath of chaos,

A universe
kissed by timeless loss.

golden sun sinks low,

silhouettes of trees stand still,

reflections shimmer.

Not all is alright,

but still I hold through the storm,

my heart beats steady,

a fragile but fierce ember—

I will not be lost today.

Grief clouds the still air,
soul slipping like dusk to night,
silent and unseen.
Breadcrumbs of a heart’s ruin fall,
soft echoes of battles lost.

Her hands bore deep scars,
etched stories of wars within,
her own promises—
whispered truths soon cast away,
dragged beneath life’s cruel currents.

Anger’s storm now fades,
mirrors hold her shattered gaze.
The past calls
s
 o
f
t
l
y,
specters of what once had been,
laying flowers on the grave.

Blue skies pierce the soul,
mocking in their clarity.
Life blooms where I weep,
a seedling waits in the soil,
buried deep to rise again.

She thought love would age like wine,
Smooth and dark, a holy sign.
Gentle whispers, velvet skies,
But the truth came wrapped in lies.

The shadows fell, they did not ask,
His voice a sermon, a shattering mask.
His absence carved, sharp and deep,
A wound that woke her in her sleep.

She drank the night to drown his face,
To forget the silence, to erase the space.
But the glass broke sharp against her hand,
And the blood sang truths she couldn’t stand.

Healing came like a thief in the rain,
Soft as ash, a balm for pain.
A knock at the door, a touch so kind,
An old friend’s voice she thought she'd left behind.

She stopped the drinking, stopped the fall,
Her laugh returned, a hymn in the hall.
Her wrinkles spoke of battles won,
Each line a prayer to the rising sun.

Now she writes by a candle’s glow,
Her words are rivers, strong and slow.
She meets her gaze in the looking glass,
A woman who rose from the broken past.

She lifts her glass to the evening light,
To the love she lost, to the endless fight.
Bold and unbreakable, she stands alone,
Aged like wine, her spirit her throne.

Once more she drifts deep,

snowflakes,

feathers,

kisses soft,

blackness wraps her tight.

Contrast whispers in the void,

light and dark dance endlessly.

You, boy,
A black sun in my sky,
Stomping through my soul,
Leaving craters where love once stood.

The ashtray’s a graveyard—
Cigarette corpses stacked high.
Whiskey whispers in mason jars,
Coffee cold as my heart.

Red lights, stop signs,
I’ve been stuck in this motionless grind,
Unhappy for years,
Dragged down by your weight.

Your heart, left at the door—
A cruel offering,
A beast hiding in your skin.
You sprung bitter tears like a broken fountain.
Time ticking, killing,
Till you become a man.

Will you shake me loose,
Like the spare change you never count?
Burn me out like yesterday’s Polaroid,
Edges curling, my face fading.

I’ll drink to tomorrow.
I’ll drink to forgetting.
But your shadow, boy,
Still lingers in the cracks of my mind.

I am the fire.
I am the scream.
And you?
You’re nothing but a dream dissolving in smoke.

I am the jaded *******,
not the one cradled by silver spoons,
but a child of the streets,
mud-caked and angel-forsaken.
Guardian wings flap for the golden ones,
while the rest of us crawl,
bloodied, broken,
dragging our shadows into the abyss.

"You won't see me again,"
she whispered, a ghost of smoke,
her cigarette smothered in the ashtray's grave.
Her footsteps faded like a forgotten hymn,
leaving me alone
with the scent of ashes and endings.

Another one down,
another lost pilgrim,
another candle snuffed before the altar.
The floor drank his blood,
the walls sang dirges,
no resurrection for the weary,
no happy endings for the ******.

Tears poured,
anointing the sullied Madonna,
her hands heavy with despair,
her womb cradling a violent hope.
The Christ-child screams
before the world rejects him too.

Where are the chosen ones?
Where is the light they promised?
The night laughs,
a cruel lover’s embrace,
and I stumble, jaded,
into the arms of the void.

The room sagged, a heartbeat heavy with rosewood and dusk,
the kind of smell that reminds you of loss before it even arrives.
She moved like a dream someone forgot to finish—
feet barely touching the ground,
a laugh sharp enough to cut the silence,
and soft enough to leave it bleeding.

A single candle. One flame. One moment.
The wax slid down in slow-motion,
ancient rivers carving a map nobody could follow.
She closed her eyes and blew,
and the world coughed, staggered,
like a drunk trying to remember the way home.

The dark had teeth that night.
Her tears carried galaxies—
tiny universes wrapped in the memory of something
too big to name, too loud to quiet.
Each scar was a story;
each story a secret she’d never speak aloud.
Abandonment wasn’t just a shadow;
it was a shadow that knew her name.

Angels didn’t wear halos here.
They had fists. They broke doors.
They screamed louder than the thoughts in her head,
and for a moment—just one—
she thought about stepping off the edge.
But the edge folded itself into something softer,
like rain dissolving into the ocean—
gone, but never really leaving.

She drifted then.
The river was black velvet, and she was the needle,
slipping beneath the surface of her own reflection.
Mirrors stared at mirrors stared at mirrors,
each one laughing a little quieter than the last.
The serpents in her veins stretched lazy and golden,
curling around her like a lullaby that forgot how to end.

She stood naked in that moment—
not in body, but in soul.
Womanhood wasn’t a choice; it was a verdict.
It wrapped her in smoke and shadow,
a shroud that smelled like desire and regret.
The world didn’t notice. It never does.
She disappeared slowly,
a ripple in the fabric of something too big to understand.

Her voice was a whisper woven from silk and static.
It found him. Only him.
His name hit the air like a match on gasoline,
burning white-hot and hollow.
She unraveled in the glow—
her edges ash, her center a flicker
fighting to stay lit.

Morning didn’t rise; it crept.
The air tasted like regret and cigarettes.
Dust floated in the sunlight,
a million little infinities caught
between forgetting and forgiving.
Love lay there, cold and still,
its mask cracked just enough
to show the liar beneath.

The child moves,
blindfolded,
stumbling through the trembling air,
Hands grazing the rough bark of trees, the cool breath of stone.
Laughter rises, thin as thread, spinning through the dark—
A thread they cannot follow,
only pull,
only pull,
Until the world dissolves,
and home is only a memory of warmth.

In the schoolyard sun,
The moon cast its spell,
A shadow on her eye
Where secrets swelled.
Her smile cut sharp,
Like a blade left cold,
Not for love, not for trust,
Not a story to be told.

The siren screamed,
Oh, how it wailed,
Inside her chest,
Where her strength had failed.
We walked right past,
We didn’t even see,
A girl in the dark
Where the light should be.

And the window cracked
On a midnight breeze,
Her truth came crashing
Like falling leaves.
We said, “Poor girl,”
But it was too late—
We traded her soul
For a twist of fate.

She spilled her trust,
Like blood on the floor,
And her mama turned away,
Couldn’t love her no more.
The cards reshuffled,
The lies changed hands,
And we just stood by
In a hollow land.

She was sinking, yeah,
In a silent tide,
We said, “Ain’t it strange,
How still waters lie.”
Her mind went dim,
A house turned to stone,
And we told ourselves
She’s fine alone.

Oh, but the moon rose high,
And her fire went black,
Ashes in the wind
That’ll never come back.
She burned down quiet,
No cries, no sound—
Just a shadow of a shadow,
Lost underground.

Bluebells caught in her tangled hair,
Buttercups dancing in the open air.
A daisy crown, a fragile ring,
Foxglove whispers where shadows sing.

A bouquet gripped, loose in her hands,
Dreaming of boys, of far-off lands.
She waits for their eyes, for their seed to sow,
Forever ripe, with a heart aglow.

Running naked where the wild horses roam,
Wings outstretched, the world her home.
She reaches for sunlight, it burns her skin,
Magic bursts where dreams begin.

Blown bubbles scatter, they fill the sky,
Childhood hopes, now asking why.
A father’s absence, poverty’s chains,
Creativity blooms through endless pains.

Children raised where the waves collide,
Her heart’s adrift on the restless tide.
Alone with thoughts that crush and swell,
A soul on fire, a story to tell.

Yet wildflowers grow where the earth is torn,
In the cracks of loss, new life is born.
She rises strong, though the storm may call,
A radiant spirit that conquers it all.

She swelled with the tide, a temple of flesh,
A prisoner of the moon, caught in its mesh.
The babe, a fish swimming dark seas unseen,
A Pisces prophet with eyes serpentine.

They wove the spell, this chaos, this sin,
A labyrinth of whispers carved deep in her skin.
“Forgive me,” she moaned, lips cracked and dry,
“This child will tear the veils of the sky.”

Her hands, pale ghosts, reached for the flame,
“Punish me, lover, call me by name.
Bleed me, feed me, make it all slow,
Your love is a mirror—I shatter, I glow.”

Her womb was a temple, heavy with fire,
The hymns of a rebel, the strings of a lyre.
The babe coiled tight like a venomous charm,
A grenade of fate cradled in her arm.

The stars watched silent, the earth held its breath,
A shadow-child dancing with the drums of death.
She laughed at the gods, her voice wild and free,
“This is rebellion—it starts with me.”

A cat in the window,
eyes wide with grace,
Another on my lap,
warmth taking its place.

Dust motes swirl in the sunbeam’s embrace,
The scent of Arabic coffee
fills the space.
Daydreams drift softly,
time slows its pace.

A hearty stew bubbles,
its promise near,
Rich scents weaving
a story of cheer.
The slow-cooker hums,
a comforting tune,
Filling the room
with a savory boon.

You scroll through videos,
a chuckle, a grin,
As I turn the page
where my book begins.
Sometimes we pause,
a shared thought or glance,
Lost in the rhythm,
our own quiet dance.

Our haven, a world
both simple and sweet,
Where moments align,
a life complete.
In the warmth of our home,
we find our reprieve,
Together in joy,
as the hours weave.

My demons cling to me,
not as enemies,
but as forgotten children,
whispering the secrets of my soul.
They are the aftertaste of desire,
the bittersweet echo of childhood,
when freedom was as vast
as the evening sea,
and fear was a stranger.

I float now, unmoored,
my eyes closed to the world,
my heart open to the infinite.
The universe wraps me
in its eternal embrace,
its love slow and deep,
its regret soft as a mourning dove.
I am made whole by its sorrow,
and undone by its knowing.

For I am two—always two.
One walks in light,
the other dances in shadow.
Together, they burn,
the fire of madness consuming
what grace remains.
I cannot turn from this duality,
for it is the blood in my veins,
the breath in my lungs.

And yet, you stand before me,
a man with the patience of the stars,
the wisdom of the eternal.
You see me, whole and broken,
the storm and the stillness.
Your love is not afraid of my chaos,
for you have made peace with the fire.

You hold me as the sea holds the shore—
gently, fiercely,
with a love that neither takes
nor demands,
but simply is.
In your arms, I am no longer two,
but one—
whole, infinite,
and free.

Before they fade
Say what must be said,
before silence claims
the chance—
sorry,
forgive me,
I love you,
always will stay,
words to heal
before they fade.

Let vanity slip away like smoke in the wind,
And lies crumble beneath the weight of truth.
Let doubt loosen its grip on your soul,
And gossip fall quiet in the stillness of love.
No false friends, no hollow words—
It is time to show them who you are.

She turned her face,
smooth as the moon’s cold arc,
away from the storm in my arms,
the tempest she refused to see.
The scars climbed my skin—
rungs on a ladder of grief,
each carved line a scream
swallowed by the vast, uncaring sky.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said,
her voice, brittle as dry reeds,
fragile in its tight restraint.
The bitter breath of black coffee,
the smoky veil of cigarettes,
stood between us,
a wall, a barrier of indifference.

But I,
I called to life the crimson river,
its rush fierce, its truth undeniable.
Words failed where the blade did not,
its edge a preacher, sharp and sure.
Joy, sorrow, despair—
all bled the same,
their stories painted on my skin.

Then came the pills,
like stones pressing the ocean floor.
Heavy salvation, they dragged me deep,
into waters where I was no one—
a shadow bloated with silence.
Dreams came, sharp as talons,
tearing through the darkened halls
of my restless soul.

“You’re nothing now,” she said,
her words a whip with pity’s sting.
“No one will love what you’ve become.”

But oh, the demons loved me well,
their hunger unyielding,
their feast endless.
They claimed my broken pieces,
traded one vice for another,
devoured the echoes of who I was.

And now, she is quiet.
The night stretches on, long and lean,
its silence a river where I wade alone,
listening to the hollow song
of their eternal feast.

Perched between
two worlds,
Free bird on the
barbed wire sings—
Prison walls echo,
Freedom whispers
through the breeze,
Yet the sting of steel
remains.

And she, in her quiet torment, bore the weight of a thousand sorrows,
her heart a vessel cracked by the tides of betrayal.
The years, like autumn leaves, fell away,
each one a whisper of love's illusion,
each one a thread torn from the tapestry of her being.

She gazed upon him, the architect of her undoing,
his slumber a mockery of peace.
His promises were but shadows, fleeting and insubstantial,
like petals scattered by the wind,
trampled beneath the careless march of time.
And the sea, ancient and eternal, called to her,
its voice a hymn of solace,
a beckoning to let the weight of her shame
be carried away by its ceaseless waves.

They moved together, bound in a dance of anguish,
their steps etched into the earth like scars.
Love and hate wove their lives into a single thread,
a cord that choked her spirit and set her soul aflame.
He was the mirror in which she saw too much,
his truths a blade that cut too deep.
Each night, she drank from the chalice of despair,
her soul dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

Outside, the reeds wept with the rain,
bending beneath the weight of unspoken grief.
She thought of forgiveness, a fragile bird,
its wings clipped by her pain.
She thought of escape, a door locked from within,
and death, a cold lover waiting in the shadows.

Alone, she walked beneath a godless sky,
her prayers unanswered, her faith a shattered relic.
The dreams she had nurtured were slain,
their blood staining the soil of her heart.
Yet in the quiet ruins of her despair,
she found a strange and hollow strength.
The stones of her sorrow became a foundation,
and from the ashes of her ruin,
she began to rise,
unbroken, unafraid,
a whisper of light in the endless dark.

The pounding of a Heart—again—
A Drum within my Chest—
The Marble Altar—Silver-grained—
Receives its solemn Guest—

Immobile lies the trembling Flesh—
A Vessel, wide with Sight—
To witness Hands, so veteran—
Divide the Day from Night—

He splits me, like the Autumn Husk—
To harvest what’s within—
The Fetus, plucked, a fragile Pearl—
Exposed to Birth—and Sin—

He swings the Babe, a pendulum—
Its Breath—a mournful Knell—
The Audience, a silent Choir—
Their gaze—a Private Hell—

No Cry escapes the aching Lips—
No Tear the Cheek shall know—
But Loss ignites—a burning Vein—
To set the Soul aglow—

We play as Gods, upon the Stage—
While Ghosts beyond the Frame—
Collapse in Hunger’s fragile Shell—
And whisper but a Name—

The Comedy and Tragedy—
In Sinless Whites, combined—
A Truth so sharp—it cuts the Cord—
That tethers Life to Mind—

I learned my body in the cold forge of silence,
where love was a weapon, and the wound was mine to carry.
You taught me how to hold my breath
while your absence pressed itself into my bones—
a relentless tattoo,
a map of what I would never become.

Your voice was a fist—
your quiet, a sharper blade.
Every word was a verdict,
every glance, a guillotine,
and I learned to die in pieces,
small enough to fit inside your shadow.

At night, I swallowed your name like glass,
shards lining my throat,
cutting open all the lies I could not afford to believe.
I ran until my feet forgot the ground,
until the screams in my chest became a rhythm,
a hymn to the emptiness you left behind.

Who am I, but the daughter of droughts?
The child of cracked earth and barren prayers?
You taught me hunger—
the kind that devours its own mouth.
You taught me thirst—
an unending ache,
parched for a tenderness that never came.

But I am not your ruin.
Not your silence.
Not the bruise of your forgetting.
These hands, scarred and blistered,
are mine—
their strength shaped in the absence of your love.

You will not rise in me,
you will not bloom.
I carry your name like a wound I refuse to close,
like a truth too sharp to heal.
But still, I stand.
Still, I breathe.

I am the fire you could not extinguish,
the flood you could not drown.
I am the hunger that consumes its own shadow,
the storm that grows louder in the stillness.
No chains, no roots, no shame—
just the echo of my own voice,
a voice you tried to bury
but could not silence.

No mother, no tether, no guilt—
only this scar shaped like freedom,
and I wear it like armor.

Do you seek my truth?
words may cut like Winter's wind,
bare, but never false.

Today, I wore black
to mourn the dead futures
or celebrate the absence of light,
to feel the bones beneath my skin—
a silhouette slicing the fat air.

Thin and elegant,
the mirror mutters noir hymns,
a fragmented gospel of stitched shadows,
and the fabric whispers secrets of lost time—
they always whisper,
the dead and the seams alike.

Was it mourning or celebration?
Does it matter? The streets
don’t ask,
don’t care if you’re a ghost or a goddess
sliding through the cracks
between neon prayers and asphalt elegies.

Black is a portal,
a torn page from a forgotten hymnbook.
Elegance folds into nothingness,
thinned to abstraction—
a threadbare truth unraveling
in the night’s relentless choreography.

Today, I wore black.
Maybe it wore me.

Wine flows,
cheese is sliced,
Hams and pâté grace the board,
Cards fan in warm hands.
Records spin, voices collide—
Sunday’s hearth,
food, and hearts burn.

The way he undresses,
day's weight
s
l
i
d
i
n
g
off his skin,
bare and unburdened,
each fold whispers freedom's touch,
heat stirs deep,
a quiet flame.

blade meets silver scales,
flesh protests with fleeting thrash—
life yields to the sea.

plastic wraps the gills,
airless world beneath the waves—
drowning without fight.

carried far away,
a graveyard of shining fins—
nature's quiet plea.

The comet ☄️ of my soul shatters the sky,
A river of fire, burning where love once lay.
I am the one you could not hold,
The shadow cast by your golden day.
Carpe Diem murmurs in the hollow night,
Yet I remain, a stone, unmoved, undone.
On this sofa, the silence sings,
The echoes of your voice a fading sun.
Behind my eyelids 👀, colors clash and break,
A kaleidoscope of pain only absence can make.

The dusty yellow of sticky nectar
smears her face, opalescent,
the kind of glow you’d see in a dream
before it turns nightmare.
He sits across from her,
ambition cracked like the dry riverbed
of his father’s voice,
leaking out into the room,
spilling his senses in a game of tag
he will never win.

Their conversation is a war—
drones buzz overhead,
their bodies weightless as insects,
but the gore is real:
blood on the walls,
blood in the silence between
one bitter word and the next.
What did they fight for?
Pride? A crumb of it?
The thing dissolves like sugar
in a child’s fist—
sticky, stained,
but gone.

And at the end of it,
only children remain.
Not the ones they bore,
but the ones they still are:
small, angry,
married to a promise
no one ever explained.

They imagine pastures,
green as forgiveness,
wet as birth.
But the watering is endless,
the grass never grows.

It begins with a whisper,
soft as feathers brushing bone,
a murmur threaded with sweet venom:
You’re too much, you know that?
He says it like love, like it’s kindness
to clip the wings he gave me.

I laugh,
because that’s what you do when
someone you trust steps on your shadow,
calling it a game.
I laugh,
because his smile holds me hostage,
because my silence has become
the price of his calm.

And then it grows,
the laughter sharpens into teeth.
Each word dressed in humor
but hiding the sting.
You’re insane.
He says it with his eyes locked on mine,
searching for the fracture.
You believe anything, don’t you? Idiot.
And the room becomes smaller
as the air folds itself into shame.

I once thought trust
was a ribbon we tied between us,
a thread unbroken.
But he pulls it taut
only to watch me stumble,
to laugh as it frays
beneath the weight of his lies.

I was naive—
yes, that’s true—
to think love was a place of safety,
to believe his words were mine to hold.
But now, his laughter
hangs heavy in the corners,
and I wonder:
when did the joke become me?

It isn’t love
when your softness becomes his sport,
when he laughs at the tender parts
and calls it play.
It isn’t love
to twist innocence into a punchline
and leave the room echoing
with your shame.

But still,
he grins like the sun,
and for a moment,
I almost believe
it’s all in my head.

Ave Maria rings,

soft at dusk, the sky blushes,

hearts lift with the stars.

Neither fight nor flight—
I am a hostage of the chemicals,
the shrink’s hand-me-down lullabies:
wake, smile, sleep, cry—
a parade of puppets on taut strings.
Not a thread of shame,
no blush to mark the trespass of my will.

Balance, he says, is a tightrope act.
Obedience hums like a steady drumbeat.
But the body—
oh, the body knows nothing of balance,
only the edge, the gaping maw of almost.
Painkillers slip into my pocket like coins for Charon—
companions for the journey into this fabricated calm.

I sit in the shadow of myself,
watching the rehearsals of humanity:
the mimicry of laughter,
the choreographed tears,
the steady gaze of eye contact—a ritual I master.

Release, he says.
And I, ever the good patient,
release into the artificial tide,
the undertow of someone else’s control.

Still, the body whispers of rebellion,
a quiet ache that longs for rawness,
for the chaos that keeps the blood
pulsing,
real.