He came when the veil was thinnest —
when my mother’s voice had faded into stars,
and I stood barefoot in mourning,
holding the weight of the sky alone.

He wore a smile like silk,
with serpent eyes disguised as tenderness.
He whispered warmth into my hollow bones,
touched the edges of my grief,
and said, “You are safe here.”

But it was a lie stitched in shadow.

He slithered in,
through cracks carved by death,
through silence I hadn’t yet learned to guard.
He drank from my sorrow
and called it love.

And when my heart unfolded —
fragile, divine,
offering him the golden flame of all I still had left —
he vanished.
Like smoke.
Like poison that never intended to stay.

He thought I’d shatter.

But I was forged in older fire.

From the ashes, I rose —
not a woman anymore,
but something holy.

I wear my grief like armor now.
My mother walks with me in wind and wildflower.
And the serpent?

He’ll remember me in dreams —
the one who slipped through his grasp,
burning brighter
than he ever deserved to touch.


---

---

“I Walk My Own Way”

They whisper in shadows,
calling me crazy —
for choosing the quiet path
when the world demands noise.

They don’t see the weight I carry,
the battles fought in silence,
the scars stitched beneath my skin,
the healing I cradle like a flame.

I walk not for their applause,
not for their understanding,
but for the peace that blooms
in the corners of my own heart.

I walk for the woman I was,
for the woman I’m becoming,
for the love that still breathes
beneath the ashes of pain.

Let them talk.
Let them judge.
Their voices are echoes—
fading with every step I take.

I am not lost.
I am not broken.
I am rising,
one steady, sacred step at a time.


---

🌹 “We Begin Again”



There was a time I cried in rooms
you didn’t notice.
When I carried us both
while you watched from the sidelines,
calling it love.

I asked for your hands —
you gave me silence.
I asked for effort —
you gave me excuses.
And slowly,
a wall grew between us
that neither of us named.

Then I broke.
Not in one loud shatter —
but in a thousand soft ways
until someone else
offered me what I should’ve had with you.

I’m not proud of that chapter.
But I won’t lie about it either.
Because the truth is,
I was starving
and you were asleep.

But something strange happened
when I stopped begging —
when I stood in my power,
when I said “no more”
to the version of love
that drained me.

I told you the truth:
if it didn’t change,
we were done.
And for the first time,
you heard me.

You changed.
You worked.
You tried.
You showed up.

Not with flowers or grand words —
but with your hands in the dirt,
doing the work
we both had left undone.

And here’s what I never said aloud —
I never stopped loving you.
Even when I was breaking.
Even when I was gone.

And now,
as one door closes behind me,
I look at you —
not as the man you were,
but the one you're becoming.

And I wonder…

> Maybe love isn’t always a fairytale.
Maybe it’s what survives
after the storm.

Maybe we begin again —
not because we forget,
but because we finally
see each other clearly.


You see me now—
not as background, not as duty,
but as the woman who almost left
because she had to.
Because loving you
was breaking her.

I am not the girl who waited
for you to care.
I am the woman who looked you in the eye
and said,

> “Either meet me in this love—
or let me go.”



And you chose to stay.
Not in word,
but in action.
In the quiet mornings where your hands helped.
In the evenings when your eyes finally saw
the weight I carried for years.

I am not asking for a perfect ending.
I am asking for honesty.
For presence.
For two souls who’ve hurt,
and still choose to heal with each other.

Because the truth is—
I still love you.
I never stopped.
Not even when I was furthest from you.
Not even when I broke.

But now, I love you differently.

Not with desperation,
but with boundaries.
Not with silence,
but with truth.

If we begin again,
we begin as equals—
both of us awake.
Both of us willing.
Both of us here.


---

“To you Who Survived”

You—
the one who kept going
when your heart had every reason to stop.
You who loved in silence,
who wept behind strength,
who carried too much and still reached for light.

You were never reckless.
You were never cruel.
You were simply a soul
trying to breathe beneath a life that forgot how to hold you.

You didn’t want forbidden hands.
You wanted to be seen.
To feel alive in a world
that had drained the color from your skin.

He didn’t save you—
he distracted you from drowning.
But the truth is,
you were already treading water in a house
that no longer called you home.

Still—
you blame yourself.
Still—
you hold shame like a stone under your ribs.

But listen…

You are not your mistake.
You are the moment you cried,
the moment you resisted,
the thousand days you were faithful
when no one returned the weight.

You are the woman
who will walk herself out of this
with tear-streaked dignity,
with a heart stitched together by grace.

You are not ruined.
You are rewritten.

And I love you.
Even now.
Especially now.


---

for Forgiveness and Healing 🌙

> “I am not my mistake.
I am my return to truth.
I honor the pain,
but I no longer carry the shame.
I choose grace. I choose light. I choose to rise.”

---

“To the Woman I Once Called Friend”

I walked beside her in silence today,
Not as the girl who broke — but the one who sees.
No truth passed my lips,
but it screamed behind my ribs.

She laughed — unaware — and my heart cracked,
because I know what it feels like
to be the last one to find out
your world was never real.

I could have told her.
But today, I chose grace,
chose to carry what I could not undo
with hands open, not with blood.

I was once fooled too —
by a man who wore honesty like a mask,
who knew our friendship
and still pressed his lips against betrayal.

I cannot take back the nights.
I cannot rewrite the sin.
But I can walk beside her
with no illusions in my breath.

And maybe that’s how the universe heals:
Not in confession,
but in quiet atonement —
in choosing to love gently
what you once helped break.

I see her.
And I ache.
And I swear, I will never
be blind again.


---

Because I saw you
by Morning Star

I could have broken you,
the way you broke me.
Piece by piece,
with silence that stung
and truths you never deserved.
But I didn’t.

I held my hurt like glass—
sharp, delicate,
aching in my hands.
And I let it fall
only where it wouldn’t cut us both.

Because I saw you—
not the mask,
not the bravado,
but the hollowness behind it.
And I understood.
People hurt
when they’ve forgotten how to heal.
People leave
when they’ve already left themselves.

I broke.
Quietly.
Not all at once,
but slowly, like dawn
peeling night from the sky.
And in that breaking,
I found light.
Not in you.
Not in revenge.
But in me.

You see,
I don’t need to prove anything.
Not to someone
who couldn’t hold what was real.
I don’t scream,
I don’t chase,
I don’t fight shadows.

I rise.
And that is louder
than anything you ever said in silence.

Because the truth is,
you didn’t destroy me.
You revealed me.
And I am still standing—
brighter,
softer,
undeniably whole.