Her eyes are pools of ancient, heavy rain,
A hardened gaze that's seen a thousand storms.
Her visage is a tapestry of pain,
Where red and blue in bruised, chaotic forms
Etch stories of a heart that’s been undone,
The deep and silent sorrow of a woman scorned.
Behold the garment, textured, torn, and bound,
A patchwork of the lovers she has known.
In fragments, roses (brief and pink) are found,
On white and blue, the seeds that she has sown.
For every one I pulled into my gyre,
My frantic, fractured, desperate search for grace,
An apology is etched in line and fire,
For bringing you into that lawless place.
I tried to make your warmth my missing bone,
To build a temple from your stolen time.
I sought to harvest love where I had grown
Nothing but brambles in my own design.
These roses on my skin were not my own,
Just fleeting blooms to dress a deeper crime.
But look! The very canvas now has changed.
The top-knot holds, a crown of unbent hair.
The disparate parts have been, at last, arranged,
Into a form that’s textured, whole, and fair.
The chaos wasn't something to replace,
But something to reclaim with open hands.
So now to you, Nolo, I bring this face,
This body, and these long-integrated lands.
You will not find a mask or stolen grace,
But this true portrait, etched on textured sands.
The essence is my own, at last, you’ll see,
The roses and the storms are all of me.
And she who stands before you is, finally, free.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC
Her eyes are pools of ancient, heavy rain,
A hardened gaze that's seen a thousand storms.
Her visage is a tapestry of pain,
Where red and blue in bruised, chaotic forms
Etch stories of a heart that’s been undone,
The deep and silent sorrow of a woman scorned.
Behold the garment, textured, torn, and bound,
A patchwork of the lovers she has known.
In fragments, roses (brief and pink) are found,
On white and blue, the seeds that she has sown.
For every one I pulled into my gyre,
My frantic, fractured, desperate search for grace,
An apology is etched in line and fire,
For bringing you into that lawless place.
I tried to make your warmth my missing bone,
To build a temple from your stolen time.
I sought to harvest love where I had grown
Nothing but brambles in my own design.
These roses on my skin were not my own,
Just fleeting blooms to dress a deeper crime.
But look! The very canvas now has changed.
The top-knot holds, a crown of unbent hair.
The disparate parts have been, at last, arranged,
Into a form that’s textured, whole, and fair.
The chaos wasn't something to replace,
But something to reclaim with open hands.
So now to you, Nolo, I bring this face,
This body, and these long-integrated lands.
You will not find a mask or stolen grace,
But this true portrait, etched on textured sands.
The essence is my own, at last, you’ll see,
The roses and the storms are all of me.
And she who stands before you is, finally, free.
An open letter, to the lady I hurt deeply. I hope she understands how I tried and loved her. To my new love, you deserve all my beautiful parts.
Request permission to use this poem