You don’t have to rise like the sun each day—
some mornings, it's enough just to open your eyes,
to sit with the silence,
to feel your heartbeat and whisper, “I’m still here.”

You are not the storm that passed,
nor the ruins it left behind.
You are the seed under the soil,
waiting for the right rain,
the quiet miracle of a soul not giving up.

Let no one shame the pace of your healing.
Let no voice drown out the hush of your trying.
Because surviving is not small.
And breathing, on hard days,
is a kind of bravery the world forgets to praise.

So rest, dreamer.
You don’t need to shine tonight.
You just need to stay—
soft, alive,
and wildly worthy of tomorrow.

they say time is a construct, so i've measured your absence in other ways:
the number of voicemails to your phone
flowers i've laid by your name
visits to your parents...

i still miss you, but not in the way that i did last january
i miss you in the way that the sky misses the sun
with an acceptance that dark comes but light can follow.

it's been a year
and i still promise that i'll be a good human
that i'll be kind and loving
so that anyone who knows me knows you.

when i see you in my dreams
please don't be surprised when i hug you a little tighter
and i hold you a little longer.

please understand
there is a you-shaped hole in my heart
that no one will fill.

please know that when i said forever
i meant it.

i hope all is bright in heaven.

i love you.

Not everything sacred needs to be born of suffering.

Not every acknowledgement needs to come from rock bottom.

My love,
you are allowed to feel peace.
You are allowed to live a joyful life.
You are allowed to experience softness and call it sacred.

So stop using your pain as proof of your depth.
It’s time to retire that narrative,
that your pain is the most interesting thing about you—it’s not!
There are hundreds of beautiful reasons for your existence,
but suffering isn’t one of them.

You can explain every scar.
But when it comes to healing?
You stall.
Because healing isn’t poetic.
It’s messy, boring, frustrating.

Peace makes you suspicious.
If things go too well for too long,
your brain starts poking at old wounds or inventing new ones.
You miss the chaos even though you claim to want peace.

But here’s what you need to know;
you’re still becoming.
You’re still growing.
You can still be profound without bleeding for it.

So allow yourself to heal,
and let joy into your life,
because the best version of you isn’t your pain,
it’s your rebirth.

Don't punish your body for carrying the weight of your soul.
You are meant to be alive.

Some mornings still feel like you,
like warmth I didn’t deserve but couldn’t let go.
Memories somewhere behind the silence.
Like a thread I never untangled.

Some nights, I wake up
and it’s like you just left the room.
Like your laugh is still hanging in the air
and my chest forgets it’s empty.
I dream of rooms you still live in.
I don’t see your face
but I wake up full of you,
like love left its light on.

Some silences still hum with what we never said.
And sometimes I still feel the ghost of your hand in mine.

In some timeline,
I said what I meant before it was too late.
I showed up. I stayed.
I fought for you the way you deserved. And you never have to wonder if I still love you.

Some part of me still waits
not here, not now,
but somewhere
our love still lives.

tease me
as we lean against the bar
hiding from the others
call me darlin’
As I accidentally step on a toe
fine maybe two
and pondering who’ll wear the cowboy hat for the night
and maybe a couple more

I gave you  
half-full cups—  
to you, overflowing.  

I gave you  
measured warmth.  
Wrapped it in pretty,  
promised it was real.  

I called you  
gentle  
so I could become it.  

You brought me morning,  
the good kind,
and time I didn't earn.

You gave me home,
a stillness,
and hands that didn't ask.

I brought you mirrors.  
You stayed.  
I flinched.  

I don’t wish to hurt you.  
Only to leave gently,  
and that is still  
a kind of cruelty—  
to be kind.  

Even now,  
I measure sweetness  
in what we almost were.  

And still—  

My love,
I love
you, love,
not enough.

Karma's a revolver with a cherry red smile,
dancing in the dark like a ghost gone wild.
She waits under the cloak of stormy skies,
with a perfume of gunpowder, secrets, and lies.
Every sin's a bullet tucked into her dress,
Tell me, are you sure you want to place your bets?
Spinning the chamber with slow caress,
every choice calculated under your duress.
Humming sweet lullabies in the back of your mind,
she's satin and danger, all intertwined.
Pulling the trigger with a wink and a sigh,
you thought you were wanted, but you're just the high.
Ask yourself before you begin:
Can you stomach the cost of the chaos within?
She plays to collect, and so far has yet to miss a debt.
Do you really want to tempt Karma when she's actually Russian roulette?