My coffee sings a morning lie
I greet the room and get no reply
Still, I talk to myself—at least I try
The walls never say hello or goodbye
Maybe the silence is just being shy...
but we usually see eye to eye
Now it’s time for ham and egg pie

The bookshelf waits. Dust comes to stay.
Unread for weeks. This is the way.
My pile of clothes begins to sway—
A soft rebellion, mild decay.
Necklaces lounge in proud display,
Bright lollipop earrings steal the day,
I dress like I’ve outrun dismay.

Otonoke in my ears, pocketed hands
I don’t need a reason. I don’t need a plan
The clouds clap with a flash and a BANG
I walk like I'm lit by streetlamp spite—
just me and the echo of maybe-I-might

One step, two step, three step, four
I giggle in the face of thunderstorms
Rain, rain, please don't abate
Let me linger in this state
Wet socks squish, but they carry their weight
Wish I had nowhere to be, that'd be great
The clouds and I are late for our date
My umbrella dozes – dry, ignored
Drip-dry dreams on the hallway floor
I hang up my coat and set my plea:
Oh woe is not me

I refuse to droop, to wither, to mope
Not all the time, at least, I hope
Let joy arrive on tiptoe
A spark that only I bestow
A tiny smile for what I miss the most

Because what is the opposite of woe?
If not a blink that dares to glow

Wrapped in fleece, the evening mine
Slow sips of golden honey wine
Just me, and this quiet offering
Where everything small becomes everything

I was once a victim,
Beaten until I was compliant,
Compliant enough to hurt another—
my mother.

I was once a victim,
My innocence used up,
My core torn from a father I could only adore.
What is hatred to a child, but fleeting tantrums?

I was once a victim,
Slipping in my drink,
Strobing long batted eye blinks,
Her heat driving down on my forbidden rod.
She told me if I didn’t, I wouldn’t make it home.

I was once a victim,
Two days before the altar,
My fiancé souring sheets with a friend who stole everything from me.
Everything bled into colorless ravines of distrust.

Victims are strong,
Not for what they have endured,
But for what they become,
Superseding the cyclic nature of dirtied deeds.
They find solace in cautious optimism, defining strength beyond measure and measuring only by their own successes.

There may be no angels soaring high or a guy in the sky,
No balrog of the deep depths or adversary king on hell’s high throne.

But demons are real,
Whispering echoes,
Phantasmagoric memories cast upon the mind by way of
scent, sound, or touch, until the rush comes to **** us up.

The truth is,
even a hermit like me is never alone.
We victims can form like Voltron,
Together joined to heal and change the story.

A wise woman on the tv once told me
“There is no fate but what we make”