She was the first to feel the weight,
The crown of thorns she learned to take,
The one who´s always standing tall,
but no one ever sees her fall.

The pride, the joy, the first in line,
But she never gets the chance to cry,
She carries it all, but on her own,
The forgotten child, the one alone.

She’s the rock, she’s the shield,
But who will heal the wounds she feels?
Too old to ask, too young to break
She’s learned to bend but never shake.

She’s the light, but she’s the ghost,
The one who gives but never boasts.
Too scared to ask, too proud to show,
How heavy the burden, how far it goes.

And one day she´ll fall, and no one will know,
The strength it took just to let go,
But she always been the one to rise,
With a smile that hides the tears in her eyes.

So take a moment, see her now
Before she burns out, before she bows.
She’s the first to carry, the last to break,
But there’s only so much her heart can take.

The oldest daughter, she carries it all,
The weight of the world, the silent call.
The oldest daughter, the first-born child,
She´ll carry it all, she´ll put up a fight.
The oldest daughter, she´ll break the seal,
So one day she´ll let go and finally heal.

The oldest daughter,
The petals of a rose, her grace concealed,
But thorns cut deep, and wounds don’t heal.

You were in my arms
Now you're in distress
From all the nights you cried
Still saddened by this loneliness

I'm familiar with that state
And how it takes me down again
Down this rabbit hole of regrets
And my thoughts of what I said

So I'll make sure you never stumble
When you're running up ahead
I'll keep you safely in my arms
As I calmly brace your head

And if the world has turned to mayhem
And is on its final legs
I can hold you for eternity
Until you're feeling safe again

Before you're leaving me to run
Towards the sun you're convinced is red
Still searching our baby blue ocean
As you're laying on its bed

So I'll do everything I can
To make sure you have some friends
Who can be there when it's rough
When your days are blue again

I would give the winter's breath,
the shiver of frost on every pane,
to hold the weight of your laughter again,
to braid your name into the soft dusk.

I would give the moon,
its chalky whispers in the dark,
to hear your voice once more—
a ribbon of light cutting through my grief.

Oh, I would give my hands,
these tired, trembling hands,
if they could reach through the thin veil of silence,
if they could cradle your cheek,
brush your hair like I used to,
sing you to sleep again.

I would give the stars,
their distant promises, their cold fire,
just to say what I should have said every day:
I love you.
I miss you.
You were my sun, my endless summer.

But the world takes what it will,
and leaves only echoes.
So I sit here in the ruins of myself,
writing your name on the wind,
letting my love rise like smoke,
like a prayer you might still hear.

What I would give,
my darling,
is everything—
for just one more moment,
one more chance
to tell you
you were always enough.

I teach my
little daughter about
things in the sea with
flippers, and I feel
like Neptune or
Posideon.
I can smell
the salty breeze.

Sometimes,
I feel like
I won the lottery.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm broke most
of the time, but
my life is rich with
golden memories, and
silver moments, built
one day at a time.

“It’s all your fault,” her mother spat,
the words curling like smoke
burning holes through the film
as the reel of her life sputtered,
frames melting, memories blistered.

“Are you ashamed?” she asked him once,
but the answer was a rooftop of ravens,
black and fat with fury,
their wings heavy with arguments
that scattered like dandelion seeds
on a storm-bitten wind.

He adored her—or so she thought—
until his chats told otherwise.
Still, he guarded her like stained glass,
jealous of each gaze that lingered,
each stranger who feasted
on her church-window eyes,
shards of color sharp enough to cut.

Her mother’s lies
coiled in her throat,
a banquet of bitterness
she could never swallow.
She needed a scapegoat,
an alibi for the twin
flickering inside her:
one a saint of silken dreams,
the other a sinner
digging graves for every tomorrow.

Why is it never enough?
Not the apology, not the tears,
not the hollow space where love
once curled its soft animal body.

She punches the mirror,
and it blossoms like her pain—
a thousand fractured faces staring back,
none of them hers.
Her reflection weeps
as she stands alone,
the only guest
at a feast of glass.

delicate moths wish
to kiss
  your oxygen-eating fingers,
   as you gently consume
    sun-dried limbs
     of monster-trees.

     your dear children,
    born of the plant flesh
  you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.

should one of your young
  dare to tiptoe
   on brittle blades
    of winter-deceased grass,
     she will grow
      more impressively
       than you,
        her mother.

    she will indulge
   in tender gluttony,
  softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.

conceived of woodpecker houses,
  her own daughters
   enter the world,
    spread their mother's warmth,
     just as your sweet baby
      did with yours.

and forever you burn.