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Too bright, tears fell unbidden
Like leaves do in the winter
When the wind, disappointed, sighs

Too loud. I wished for silence,
For companionship, or nothing at all.
Yet this is no fairy tale

You told me
“Let me see your beautiful smile.
For me, please?”

Thus I hid my face
So you didn't have to see me cry
And so I didn't have to listen
A memory from last year
Glad I got that out =)
There was a time I wandered through your garden,

starving.

And you—each of you—offered yourselves

as fruit swollen with promise.

I reached for you with cracked hands,

bit in with blind hunger,

and called the bitterness flavor.



You were beautiful.

God, you were beautiful.

But so is nightshade,

so is the blossom that blooms on the mouth of a grave.

Your sweetness was lacquered in arsenic,

your nectar dripped with need.

You tasted of almosts

and if-onlys

and don’t-you-dares

disguised as love.



I swallowed you whole.



Thank you for that.



Truly.

Because I needed the poison.

I needed to tremble.

I needed to wake at 3 a.m.

with my gut twisted into questions,

my lips still red from the lie.



You see,

each of you grew in soil watered by my self-doubt.

You thrived on my silence,

my contortion,

my careful pruning of self

to fit the shape of your hunger.



I tended you like a fool tends a ****,

thinking it would blossom into medicine.

But you were never sustenance.

You were spectacle.

And I—

I was the banquet host,

laying myself out

course after course,

watching you feast

and ask what else I had to offer.



No more.



The garden is closed now.



I’ve uprooted every vine

that once climbed my spine like a lover.

I’ve tilled the rot,

turned the decay into compost,

and from it—

from it—

a single fig tree has risen.

Quiet. Modest.

But true.



She feeds me.

Not with frenzy,

but with fullness.

Not with hunger,

but with presence.

Her fruit doesn’t burn.

It lingers.



So to each bitter harvest:

Thank you.

Thank you for sickening me.

For seducing me.

For starving me so thoroughly

that when love finally arrived,

I could taste it—

and know it was real.



You were never the feast.

You were the lesson.



And I am no longer hungry.



— Formerly Yours,

Now Fed
Fig
I did not bloom for you.

I wasn’t planted with hope of a hand like yours

to pluck what I became.



I was here.

Growing in a quiet grove,

on the edge of the unseen—

roots tangled in silence,

leaves turned to a sun I thought only I could feel.



You came like weather.

Not loud,

but felt.

A shift in the light.

A question in the wind.



I didn’t call to you.

But still,

you found me.



I watched you stumble in—

mouth stained from strange fruits,

eyes glazed from sweetness that lied.

And I knew you were not lost.

You were done.



Done with wandering.

Done with feasting on ache.

Done with mistaking hunger for worth.



You looked at me like I was something

you’d dreamed once and forgotten.

Like tasting me

woke up something ancient in you.



And it did in me, too.



Because I didn’t know I was waiting—

not for you,

but for recognition.

For a mouth that didn’t devour,

but asked.

For hands that didn’t harvest,

but listened.



And when you bit into me,

you didn’t praise.

You closed your eyes

and let silence say it.



That was the moment.



No music.

No miracle.



Just two beings

who didn’t know they were searching

until they stopped.



Now here we are.



Still.

Rooted.

Fed.



Not written in the stars—

but grown in the dirt,

together.
Roses are red
And so is my blood
You made cuts romantic
But it’s not called love
I hate when it’s romanticized, like what do you mean it’s an “aesthetic”???
#sh
I’m often surprised by my eagerness
to fall In love & to compromise
My contentment/peace
for a heartfelt release

Engulfed by lukewarm passion &
a cascade of fleeting moments
day dreams, consumed by lust

Compositions reinforced,
Offer my form to
mechanisms of my past.
they lead me on a retreat inwards.
Porous holes in stone
pull me in, Ill call you home
tucked into mountains


Rooted in the grass
Electric communication
back & forth swayed waves


I desire growth
yet stick myself into mud
just to feel grounded
Whimsy butterfly
worried not of direction
falls into the wind  

___
Dragonfly wavers
the sun gleams upon its wings
innocent hunter

___
Florida sunny days
I gaze as she plays mermaid
In sand & soft waves

____
Two still pelicans
floating on the horizon
shades of blue & green

____
Our flip flops at hand
lady moon in the bright of
day, waves as our band

____
Urges to reconstruct
water flows past prediction
integrate yourself


_____
old friends, playing cards
temporary clarity
good things come in pairs
 Jun 25 pilgrims
Mary Huxley
I wake,
but I don’t arrive.

I brush my teeth,
scroll my phone,
drink my thoughts
with lukewarm tea.

The clock ticks,
not like a heartbeat
but like a metronome
keeping time
for a song I no longer sing.

I answer emails,
nod in meetings,
smile where it fits.
I am present,
but not here.
Every day feels
like a copy
of a copy
of a dream I once had.

I miss surprises.
I miss meaning.
I miss the version of me
that thought this would feel
like living.

But I keep going.
One task. One sigh.
One “maybe tomorrow
I’ll feel something.”

Because even machines
need maintenance.
And I
am still
trying
to stay alive.
Empty your pockets before
you tell me your lies.

Because pockets hold guns,
money, and keys,
and 1000 other things you don't want me to see.

In the beginning we were naked
with nothing to hide.

We walked through this garden side by side.

But now silk robes and deep pockets
complete your disguise.

So empty your pockets 
before you speak to me,
I demand proof
that there's nothing to see!

In fact don't even bother to speak.

I refuse to believe, 
until you've shown yourself to be
every bit as naked
as you've forced me to be!
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