When I force frozen
meat apart before
it’s had time to thaw
it injures and tears
where the ice clings
too tightly.
  The meat no longer
whole, scatters into
broken bones and
bleeding fragments.
  Your absence undoes
me like this not all at
once, but with a quiet
rip, where we once
held each other too
close to separate
  without breaking.

No one
drowns
in their
own
waters.
Fish
don’t.
How
could
you?

The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.

🌸🍁

stop! I said to
this clanging mind
go! I said to my
hedonist heart
neither of the
  two deserves
my body.

Last night,
 meant to
loosen
the bulb
I wrapped
my hands
in woven
cloth, and
coaxed the
moon down
instead
It creaked,
blushed,
and fainted
slipped into
my palm,
like a lover.

She's under
Cinderella's
spellbound night.
The reality will
seep in soon.

We can't know the sea's
depth without the swim,
Nor gauge tomorrow's
progress until it's lived.

Everything reveals
itself—in motion.

Sometimes, it feels like
words have become
extinct dinosaurs,
Like the earth has
already sunk them
deep.

My heart
is another
miracle
you could
spot from
the quietest
parts of the
world.

i fear
that folded
slip with my
father’s stages
chronicled
in fading
script and
quiet list
of my
mother’s
final
condiments,
whatever
might make
death taste
less bitter
i don’t
want grief
to tear
anything
our parting
should be
like clouds
drifting in
shear
soft and
undramatic.

Breath finds its
way to the ribs.
How do we draw
love near?

When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.

If I were a bird, I'd have flown
To your grave each day
Sharing grains of life.

In youth, love
  is concentrated
like sugar in a
drink-
restless,
rushing
fizzing.

Her wounds were stitched
with threads of patience,
And from the hurt,
a moon emerged,
A glowing orb of light.

Love reveals our
bare selves—like
the full moon, clear
and veritable.

Sometimes our
emotions behave
like nomads,
camping in unknown
  places for days,
  trying to
   understand life.

They fall with a
heavy slump,
reluctant to rise
like a hippo,
half-submerged,
reclining in mud
with a slow,
  muddy squelch.

We lose our true selves—
no longer misted like a morning bud—
the thickened, tangled relationships
bury seeds inside our faith,
turning it dark.

—this is the quiet inheritance of womanhood.

I used to be
a difficult kid
when it came
to eating.
I didn’t
raid fridges
in quest
of food.
To ensure
my good
health,
my mother
fed me
spoonfuls
of bone pulp
on bunk beds.
She’d scoop
it out,
blowing air
to cool its fire,
then press it
into my
mouth
with the
quiet panic
only a mother
knows
fearful I’d turn
my head,
or spit
what she
believed
might
save me.

A duo of
parrots
has been
fluttering
they’ve
made my
  room a stage.
Their wings
flap like
applause.
Everyone
calls it
sweet
I call it
performance.
I reject how
loud,
visible,
and simplistic
their love seems.
I don't like love
that performs in
daylight,
I want a love
that’s curtained
and cryptic.

Its skin streaked
with rain and soil,
bows beneath
just a few drops
of water
grateful for even
that small sip.
Its stem,
a little bent,
its face
still golden.
And in that
gesture,
I saw the
grace of
needing little
   but receiving fully.

In a womb of time, we grow,
and heal,
where blood filled vessels
provide foresight into what's,
destined for us.

You don't know
where the kite goes.
You just have to
let it ride.

The sun
says nothing,
yet the
world
answers-
warbling,
chirring,
tweeting.
The sun opens
me like a door
each day and
the moon is
my final exit-
and between
these two
i'm kept.

I survived your Judas kiss.
It was a bee sting, a torrent of pain.
You shoved me off like a lovable pet,
unleashed in a squall.

In my
deepest
slumber
i do
   prohibited
things
crawl
through
the soft
dark,
a thud
inside
your
organs
they
  begin to
squirm
i leave
no
language
just
presence
upon
awakening
a twitch
in the
thigh,
salt
on the
tongue,
heat
trapped
between
joints
somewhere,
you shift.
somewhere,
i remain.

I yearn for a lotus leaf
drifting and merging
with waters that gently
flow into a sacred grove,
where paths route
to heaven.

Sometimes
out of purpose,
Sometimes
out of love,
Sometimes
out of necessity,
Sometimes
for a reason,
Sometimes
accidentally,
We make
someone happy.
And in those
quiet moments,
we feel
most human.

What’s the
use of
knowing
life deeply
when it
  leaves before
dawn?

One
wacky
thing
about
learning-
you start
off,
knowing
less but,
feeling
sure,
you tack
on extra
syllables-
animal
becomes
'aminal',
you drop
a few-
fish turns
into "ish'
we’re born
naming
things,
impetuously,
because
meaning
can’t wait.

Love and hatred descend
in a hierarchy, unraveling
from above—where sun
and moon once kissed,
and love began.

  The sky wrote love—
before we could name it

The sky convulses,
a star plummets, plunges
into the earth, and is gobbled
up by the soil— leaving
no signs of vitality
or decay.

I tumbled
deep into
the garden’s
throat in
a dream,
  where scent
was thick
enough to
breathe
like water.
When i
tried
to lift my
body out,
roses
clutched
at me
tendrils
looping
my wrists,
stems
curling
my ankles,
petals
cupping
my heart.
Some
amputated
their roots
from the soil,
'howling'
refusing to
snap me off
  themselves.

Altruism
has
become
an old
film reel,
where grief
looked noble
and death
had meaning.
Now people
water
relationships
for their
own springs.

Your soul keeps returning,
even in death—like sea
remnants brought back
by restless waves...

    Grief comes like the
   sea—never done,
never dry.