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Some doors are meant to stay unopened,
Some questions left silent in the air,
Some chapters end without conclusion,
Some paths often lead to nowhere.

Not every story needs an ending,
Not every wound needs words to heal,
Not every heart requires mending,
Not every truth needs a big reveal.

There's wisdom in quietly leaving,
There’s grace in letting mysteries be,
There’s peace in simply believing
That what must flow will find the sea.

So loosen your grip on expectations,
Release the need to understand,
Accept the silent explanations,
Because it is not a part of your plan.

©️Lizzie Bevis
I can't sleep
Everytime I remember your words
They snap and recoil
And hurt me awake
Next time when someone
Promises me forever
I'll just smile
Look them in the eyes and ask
How long is forever to you.
 Dec 2024 Eleanor Robinson
Nemusa
Would you still love me if the night spoke my sin,

if the ash of my mistake clung to our bodies,

if the wind carried whispers of my guilt

and our skin bore the scent of shattered stars—

would your hands still gather me from the void?
 Dec 2024 Eleanor Robinson
Nemusa
He gorges on my mistakes, a swollen moon,

pale and taut with the salt of my guilt.

Each night, he leans close, his breath like frost,

presses a kiss to my brow, cold as bone,

and whispers forgiveness I cannot believe.
 Dec 2024 Eleanor Robinson
Nemusa
plate spills over full,
crimson wine drowns the sorrow,
grief feasts silently.
My goodness some people can eat.
 Dec 2024 Eleanor Robinson
Nemusa
Oh, if I could command the waves,

Bid them hush, their wild tongues stilled,

I would pave a tranquil path, a mirror of longing, for your return.
My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.
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