I told the stars to shut up.
They weren’t witnesses. They were worse.
They kept spelling your name,
blinking slow, like pity,
glinting gallant-
like that ever saved anyone.

I walked past the summer we called ours
like I wasn’t still stalking it.
Like I didn’t prowl on purpose,
like I didn’t rehearse your alibi,
like I didn’t pray
(for prey.)

I was fine with the trees, the oil stains,
the way the sun pretended nothing happened.
I could go days without hearing an ice cream truck,
or seeing a sun-burnt stranger
and thinking: maybe the universe
rerouted you into someone
I could almost survive.

You once said I was dangerous.
And by once I mean
I wrote it down
and heard it forever.
It’s in my lymph nodes,
in the poems you pretend not to read.
It’s in the version of me
you kept almost loving
but never quite chose.

You called us perilous.
Or maybe I did.
It’s hard to tell, since
I’ve been writing you
with your mouth shut
for months.

I keep checking the margins
for your voice.
All I got were
the noises people make
when they’re trying not to drown,
but pretending to wave.

Why is your name still more siren
than sentence?
Still more blood than bruise?
I made your absence
a body I slept beside,
because I kept waking up
guilty.

I never served,
but I wrote the ending.
Put my hand on a Bible,
bit my tongue so hard
the truth still tastes like you.
Wore borrowed pearls,
and swore to God
I never loved you more
than the day you didn’t show up.

I would’ve done time for you.
I would’ve confessed to a crime
that didn’t exist
just to hold your hand once
on the courthouse steps.

You said I was dangerous.
You were right.
But not in the way you thought.
I told the whole truth-
just not out loud.

You didn’t get convicted.
But I still can’t go back
to that summer
without thinking the tan lines
were warning signs,
without getting subpoenaed
by the sky.

Some nights,
your name still tries to get in
like a burglar.
I play dead,
tell the stars to shut up.
But they unlock the window anyway.
They spell you out in light
like they want me to remember
how it felt
to be the crime scene.

Send me your kisses by letter,
I'll place them under the moon,
in the reflection of your eyes.

I'll savor them in every bite,
as if I were eating from your mouth.

But give them to me wherever I am,
whether on earth or in heaven,
wherever we are,
wherever we are.

The train hums like a memory
soft and slow through time—
a moment caught between gazing days
we lost, and hope we move forward.

Scenes flicker through the windowpane—
a mother’s wave, a lover’s stare
a strangers stealing glances
but never the courage to speak.

We travel fast, yet feel so still
in silence, we are seen—
as glances bloom like fragile love
in places we have been.

And maybe time is not a line
but tracks we ride again—
The train moves on
your soul intact, your past in every pane
each stop a reminder, each start a chance
to feel, to fall, to mend.
And every stop—
a chance to choose
To lose or love again.


Erennwrites

I was forced,
To give my heart.
I was forced,
To give my soul.
I was forced,
to give my thoughts.
I was forced to,
To give all of me,
As a whole.
They didn’t show no mercy.
Each attack.
They didn’t get karma,
I didn’t get revenge.
They served my life,
On a ******,
Platter.
They used me,
To there full extent.
Know I’m left wondering,
If I’ll ever come back.
To my childhood,
I dreamed of.
That I thought was perfect.
But those 2 years,
In school.
THAT day.
a physical scar,
That life,
Is a force,
That can rip your,
Life away in a second.
I still think why I let this happen.
The answer,
Is the threats.
I will forever live,
That what happened,
wasn’t true.
But I can’t help but wonder…
What would have changed—
If I had spoken up more?
If I had told them right away?
If I had fought?
But,
I was forced.
now I worry,
That even now,
I’m left here to decay.

I’m Triaxial,              
In geometry,          
This X, Y, and Z…              
Caged by coordinates–          
So planar, unfree          

And time’s forward flow,          
Just won’t let me go,                
It’s sometimes too fast…  
Then, relatively too slow  

There’s a down direction,              
That pulls with oppression,    
Gravity’s fixed force–      
A constant compression

When force is innate,
I’m stuck at it’s rate,
Sunken and buried,
By pressurized weight

And, in this void,
Nothing’s destroyed,
Change is the constant,
From which all is deployed

While my perception,
Is a small projection,
Of fundamentals,
Below our detection

I myself am just an extension
Of laws beyond comprehension…
I’m suffocating, blind
Stuck here, in this **** Third Dimension

Throughout the day,
in quiet passing moments,
there’s always something,
some gentle nudge,
pulling my thoughts toward you.

When I glance at the clock
there it is again:
3:33.
Numbers aligning,
perfectly placed,
whispering softly,
like the universe’s private joke,
telling me you’re somewhere
thinking, feeling,
existing
in the same world as me.

Sometimes,
in the heart of night,
I wake without reason,
eyes adjusting in the dark,
and there
again
the soft glow says:
3:33.
It’s quiet, familiar,
a cosmic wink,
the gentlest reminder
that life’s mysteries
tie me softly back to you.

In these tiny,
perfect alignments,
time pauses
just long enough
to whisper your name.
It’s the universe’s secret
and mine
this silent reassurance,
this quiet truth,
that somehow,
at 3:33,
shares a delicate moment
of connection.

Maybe I am ugly,
It’s a fair point.

I’m not nearly as handsome,
After giving up the ghost on my hair,
After years of abuse to my joints,
The combat sports and bruises,
Broken bones, contusions.
Scars and reconstructions.

Maybe I’m not a particularly pretty packaged cup of tea,
But I’m plenty strong,
Built ford tough and could run through you Like a Ram.
I’m olive toned marble
With a slick tongue.

I am endowed in ways Aphrodite blushes
And taught just as well how to wield its power
I need not look like vin diesel
To know that I am furious and rarely fast.

I’m not an ogre
Or an incel
Ungrateful for life
Or stuck inside my own shell,
I’m half Sicilian and proud,
Part Mexican with a dah of Irish,
Green eyed, and hot tempered
Black belt, and fists of fury
Gun lover , and whiskey shooter.

I’m an artist,
Photographer for funsies
Love to camp, hike weekly
And I earn plenty of monies,
Clicking on a keyboard,
Penetrating weaknesses ,
Like chess boards
While coaching my underlings
New pawns I push forward.

So yeah,
Maybe I’m ugly,
But what I have in spades
Is the fact that when you call my name
It’s a statement of fact
I’m more man than most claim to be,
And I don’t try to dominate
It’s what’s bred within me

Do you ever just ponder
And wonder of life
The splender of nature
Of wildlife?

It’s okay to hurt.
To wake with silence in your chest,
To feel the weight and call it rest.
Pain is not weakness — it’s proof you feel.
And feeling, love, is how you heal.

You’re not too soft, or far too deep,
Not wrong for crying when you sleep.
This world may try to dim your light—
But your shadows make you burn more bright.

You’ve walked through storms that bent your spine,
And still, you rise, time after time.
That ache you carry in your bones
Has shaped a fire all your own.

Forgiveness isn't letting go
Of truth, or saying “it was so.”
It’s giving yourself what you deserve:
Peace without needing to serve.

Let sadness come — let tears release.
That, too, is part of making peace.
You don’t have to smile to be strong.
You’ve been a warrior all along.

And when the path feels lost, unsure,
Remember: you are shaped, not pure.
Not broken, no — but being made
Of deeper light, and softer blade.

So trust your pace. Reclaim your name.
There’s nothing weak in rising changed.
You are the powerful, the few—
And someone else is watching you.

Let them see how strength can cry.
How grace can stand, and not ask why.
How healing isn’t always loud—
But you, dear girl, are something proud