I didn’t text you.
I just stared at the message box
until the words pooled like ***** rainwater.
Left it open all night.
That’s not the same thing as wanting you.

I didn’t reach out.
Just opened your last text
like a window in winter
and stood in the draft,
hoping the cold might say something
you wouldn’t.

I didn’t dream of you.
Just lay awake with my hands crossed on my chest
like I was practicing
being the kind of dead you’d miss.

Tonight, I’m romanticizing survival:
eating cold tortellini with a fork I found in my car,
wearing a dress that smells like gin
and someone else’s cologne.

The moon’s out
like it wants to get punched.
The stars are just freckles on a drunk god’s face.
They’re blinking like they’ve seen this before.
The night air slips in where I didn’t shut the door.

I’m not waiting.
But if you called right now,
I’d answer from
the cold part of my bed
and pretend it was a coincidence.

And if you asked what I’ve been up to,
I’d lie with my whole face.
Say, “You?”
like I didn’t write this
with the window still open.

ive been spinning mysteries and fiction in my mind
from a spool of fabric weaved from an abundance of time
we begin to hit the cabbage and again i can see magic-
it's clear that while i had it, it's become no longer mine

--frantic--

spending my last dime and nickels on wealth never trickled,
this battle never-ending grows clearer, yet still riddled
you may encounter the drug of comfort
                                                        c­onsume it or even pack it
but in a world of no profits, i am the hand behind this racket

im the don, im the boss, the last say and the final face
that you will ever see, and that nobody will ever place
you may dream with Morpheus and live for others to hear it
but i am the father of the sleep, the Hypnos for your spirit
i will claim you with the tides of rest sent by mother
and it will feel no different than the death known by no other
do not mistake our time together for numbing or slumber, for
i am keeping you here, ever awake, yet under my cover

~you are safe here with me~

Winter begins not with snow,
but with the silence before it—
that strange pause
when even the wind forgets its name,
and the sky holds its breath
like it’s waiting to see who you’ll become
when everything else is stripped away.

I step into the cold,
and it feels like stepping out of memory.
No past.
Just breath and bone,
cracking in the stillness.

Nothing lies in winter—
it simply covers.
A kind of mercy, maybe.
A kind of dare.

Under the frost,
things don’t disappear.
They hold their shape
quietly,
aching to be misunderstood.
Just like me.

This season doesn’t decorate.
It reveals.
The trees forget how to pretend.
The ground stops performing softness.
Even the light arrives with sharp edges.
I see myself more clearly
when everything else withdraws.

I have mistaken warmth for truth.
For love.
For permanence.
But there is a clarity in cold
that no fire has ever given me.

Some days I feel like a lake beneath ice—
still, but only on the surface.
Underneath: movement.
Old things.
Unspoken.
Refusing to freeze all the way through.

I carry myself through these white hours
without language,
only instinct.
Only the weight of breath in my chest,
reminding me
that survival is not the same as stillness.

And if identity lives anywhere—
it lives here.
In the bones of trees.
In the hush after snowfall.
In the refusal to bloom
just because someone else is tired of waiting.

I do not need to thaw
to be real.

"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"


"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.

And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.

They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.

Here’s why:

Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.

When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.

That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.

They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.

It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.

And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…

They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark

while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."

I’m constantly trying to do the impossible
grab the incredible.
express the inexplainable.
stop the inevitable.
I am not a pioneer of my own future.
I’m a prisoner of my past, look at
how the shackles dangle from my feet,
how they cuff my hands like dainty bracelets.
I refuse to care for the pragmatic whole of the world.
When I step on freedom it will be everything
I want it to be.
The flowers will grow upside down
The sky will be a rare shade of blue.
We’ll share hands and explore the world
created by the love in our hearts.
Freedom will be something I can hug
I will not drown in the pool of my own desires
The world can’t intervene now.
I can love you so freely without being
killed by my own limerence.

The river
— still —
not dead,
just holding its breath like it’s been doing for centuries,
like me,
warm-skinned, waiting,
a vein of old gods slicing the belly of the land.

Light drips
thick, slow
like honey from a wound,
slick across willow bones,
and dusk swallows it
without a sound.

Crickets scratch
violins made of rust and dirt,
screaming lullabies for the lost.
Each note
a tooth pulled from the silence,
buried beneath the reeds.

Maple leaves
curl like fists,
anger in amber,
whispers of fire choking the wind—
they’ve seen too many falls,
too many barefoot ghosts
asking the trees for answers they never give.

Bridges bend
like old men
too tired to hold stories anymore—
but they do.
They do.
Their backs cracked with the weight of kisses,
of “forever”s spit through clenched teeth,
wood soaked in the sweat of holding on.

Sun bleeds out
slow
gold leaking into black,
into arms that forgot how to hold anything but
absence.

And the river just keeps
keeps.
Keeps.

Still.
Silent.
A throat never cut
but always open.
Waiting for the moon
to swallow it whole
and call it peace.