It’s strange
how people bring flowers
to your funeral,
but never when you’re alive.

And no—
I’m not talking about the flowers,
or death.

Darkness.
Darkness is your monster
But it is also your friend.
It can give you clarity
Even as it blankets your vision.
It can give you comfort
Even as you feel suffocated.
In life, darkness is a symbol of fear, anguish and misery.
But remember,
Before you entered this world you were in darkness.
You were in a comforting void where you developed and grew.
In dark times, this is where most growth lies,
And when light finally returns,
You were born new.

No need for clocks
knowing in your bones that it’s 5:01 in the morning.
Time is being kept by something else now.
Waking in the mornings is effortless and free of any anxiety.
Every soft step taken is followed with weights falling. Burdens lifted. Coffee with the women. The men outside or in the barn

You clock in like it’s sport.
Bare minimum effort,
maximum proximity.
Enough to say you showed up -
not enough to matter.

I am the weather
you wade through
on the way to his sun.
Your shoes stay dry,
your conscience cleaner
than it deserves.

You breathe my warmth
like free air.
Touch softness
without ever asking
what it costs to be this open.

You sip from my life,
call it kind,
but only when it’s convenient.
When you’re not too busy
filing fantasies
under someone else’s name.

And still -
you linger.
You sit in the quiet I built,
wearing your smug smile
like a medal
you didn’t earn.

Trophies come with rules.
Show up.
Stay present.
Give a ****.

But you parade around
with your little ribbon of recognition,
plastic pride on a shelf
gathering dust.
Not for winning.
Just for being nearby
when something beautiful bloomed.

You didn’t plant a thing.
Didn’t water.
Didn’t tend.

But here you are,
touching the petals,
posing for the picture,
as if the garden
knows your name.

Sometimes, my mind is a clear summer sky
But when life gets tough, it turns into a noisy beehive
Yet, on courage, not my fear, I shall rely
Because I don’t just want to survive
I want to finally be free and alive
I would rather keep trying
Than have my fear intensifying

-Currently listening to “This is me trying” by Taylor Swift.

the precum drips out of my head
and my teardams crack
as i mourn the life i could’ve had
the self discovery ripped away
the friends who left, my heart shattered
by saying those two words

new identity made, but is it
just a farce?

new friends made, or do they
want me just for my body?

my heart reconnected with gold and lacquer
but is it all in vain?

i lie in my bed, riding a clarity i only feel
before the shame comes in

Today I realized
it is enough for me
to just know

Confusion
turning into clarity
acceptation
slowly into peace.

L.C.

The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.

This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.

And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.