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.

golden wheat bows low,
raindrops kiss each tender stalk,
afternoon whispers.

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.

a momentary lapse (of
judgement let's
play ***** games)

i'll show you mine (if) you
show me yours he
had a naughty twinkle
in his midnight
eyes i ask him questions (he won’t answer)

what’s the point he mutters
a log of memories full of
half-answered questions:

as to why

(why
they are mysterious even) to
themselves.

she dressed up
in her reputation but remained
discreet—in her
age shy as
a shiver patient (as)
a seductive suicide
deserving and
just.

she escaped reality (with
cheap ******) he
remained (in the) light
and fought like
a warrior.

they are
survivors
of ugly separations.

(what does survival even mean?)

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.

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.

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.

Drooping beneath the weighty rain—
Each drop—a Lover's Touch—
A Whisper, or a Revelation—
Too vast to clutch—too much—

The World—a stark and shaded pane—
Of Purity—and Loss—
Its Wounds concealed—yet bleeding still—
A mournful, shrouded Cross—

She trails her Veil—a Soggy Script—
A Tale without a Start—
The Clouds, the Trees, the Voice of Night—
Have vanished from the Heart—

The Door is locked—the Key—unknown—
The Anguish—hidden—deep—
The Knife—the Gravity of Breath—
The Taste—before we Sleep—

A Child—with Anklets—Bone and Bead—
A Mother—shamed—ensnared—
Their Hopes—a Candle, flickering faint—
Yet—Silence leaves them Scared—

The Soul absorbs the Mystic Fog—
A Lie—within its Clay—
The Veins of Time—wither and fray—
And Breath—expires—away—

The day we met, my world folded in on itself,

Jasmine wilting in my hair, petals falling like warnings.

You held me like a lifeline, but the ground still opened,

Swallowing me whole before I could learn your name.

Now I want you gone, not just from my skin,

But from the archive of my grief,

Erased from the map of my heart, its borders sealed.

Rich port on our lips,
the sea hums a low love song,
stars begin to dance.

Clothes fall to the sand,
bare skin kissed by moonlit waves,
the night pulls us in.

Deeper we both sink,
inky sea wraps us in silk,
love drifts with the tide.

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.

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.

Everything bleached—
the words, the memory of words,
the tongue flattened beneath the weight
of what must not be spoken. A surrender
of sound, a silence that tastes like salt
pressed into a wound
you forgot to name.

Here—
the iodine threads through the dirt—
it burns its way backward,
into a childhood—
is it mine? I do not know—
that never grew
out of its scabs, that curled itself
into a tight fist
of unhealed skin.

The razors, though—
they moved like swifts, like
unseen birds
cutting through the air
too fast to stop—
their kisses, their strange
geometry of ruin.

And the grown-ups, their words—
or were they storms?
or the echo of gods?—
"You must obey, or vanish.
You must obey, or
learn to die of shame."
And so—
the body folds itself inward,
like paper, like
a breath no one will miss.

Do you feel it?
The guilt—
its slender fingers
tightening, as if around
the throat of a world.
The shame—its small
knife-point etching
names you did not choose
into the chest.
The way the chest carries it—
silent, but
with the weight of centuries.

"Tell the story," they said.
"Make it better.
Make it sing." But
their mouths are full
of echo, their threats
like waves breaking
against a cliff you can’t stop
dreaming of.

I want to write the dirt.
The cuts.
The razors in their perfect arcs.
I want to write the gods
that were not gods, the voices
that were not mine.
The grace—
noose-like, tightening—
but not the gilded lie
of endings.

Instead, a fire:
its single purpose,
its clear burning.
Not to erase, but to
scar. To carve me
out of this
bleached photograph, this
ghost-sky still
blistering my hands.

Let it end in the crackle of ash,
the body emerging—
not whole, but here,
a scarred brightness walking
into the unfinished dawn.

dandelion clock,
whispers dreams into the breeze,
wishes take their flight.

finger-painting walls,
soft whispers guard fragile light,
hope flickers within.

brushstrokes of my trust,
boundaries bloom like wild fields,
strength begins to grow.

abstract shadows fade,
in colors, I find my voice,
the self stands aglow.

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.

plate spills over full,
crimson wine drowns the sorrow,
grief feasts silently.

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.

Candles softly glow,
wishes whispered to the wind,
church bells toll afar.

The wind rushes in,
flames flicker, dreams dissipate,
silent prayers rise.

Morning’s golden hue,
echoes fill the empty pews,
faith endures the breeze.

He said,
"You always make it harder, don’t you?
The shortcut’s right there,
but you lace up your boots for the storm."
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I like the sting of gravel underfoot,
The bruises on my knees that sing like hymns
To a Blessed Mary I don't really know,
But she feels softer
Than the buckle of his belt.

And the words—
Oh, the words,
They’re like little knives
Tucked inside his good intentions.
"This is for your own good,"
But what if my good
Wants to run barefoot
Through wildflowers
Instead of praying for a miracle
That never quite lands?

Lipstick red like fresh wounds
Isn’t fooling anyone,
But it’s my war paint.
Cranberry smile stretched wide,
Hiding a scream that could crack glass,
Hiding the scars beneath my blouse.
I walk the hardest path,
But isn’t that the one
Where the sun hits just right?

And at night,
When the buckle’s hung and his words are ash,
I sleep to find the open fields.
Fields where my mistakes grow like dandelions—
No one beats them out of me there.
I pick them, blow them,
Forgive myself in soft whispers.
Maybe next time, I’ll bloom for me.
Maybe next time,
I’ll leave the storm behind
And just run.

snow fur stained with red,

white wolves feast beneath cold stars—

life from death renewed.