She Forgot to Shine*

She watched from shadows, their laughter so bright,
Drawn to their glow, mistaking it for light.
Their crowns gleamed gold, their steps so proud,
She shrank in silence, lost in the crowd.

She painted her face in their borrowed hue,
Wore smiles not hers, masked what was true.
She mimicked their walk, their giggles, their grace,
But nothing she did could win her a place.

She dimmed her glow to mirror theirs,
Traded her truth for secondhand stares.
Ignored the whisper, soft and low—
“Your light is rare, let it show.”

But she wanted their warmth, their golden stage,
So she silenced her fire, caged her rage.
Fed on envy from morning’s first breath,
Planted deceit, reaped hollow death.

O’er—what a sorrowful, sorrowful soul,
Plunged into the very image of perfection,
Drowning in the fleeting fame,
Choking on praise never meant for her name.

She wore their shine, but it burned her skin,
For light not yours won’t glow within.
Now alone, in a mirror she stares,
At a girl who vanished chasing glares.

A ghost of hope, a shadowed shell,
Trapped in a dream that felt like hell.
Her own light waits where she left it behind—
But not all stars get a second time.

Some stories end not with silence, but with a flicker too late—
And a light forever lost to a path never meant.

The love I had for you

Made the Gods jealous

But the pain you gave me

Made the Devil laugh

I'm no longer fighting to be enough.
No longer shrinking to fit small spaces,
Twisting my truth to earn a place.
Iam walking
Towards what already knows Iam light
Toward love that doesn't demand my silence,
Toward peace that doesn't ask me to bleed.

I. Diagnosis (Age 6)

They said it like a fact.

Like Tuesday.

Like weather.

Your dad has cancer.
The word didn’t echo then—

not yet.

I drew flowers on napkins
 in the waiting room,

smiling at the nurse with the tired eyes.

Hope was a coloring book—

not a question.
I watched grown-ups fold in half

when they thought I wasn’t looking.

He got better,
then worse,

then “stable,”

which meant
 we stopped talking about the end

but never really forgot it.

II. Hallway (Age 10)

It wasn’t loud,

but something inside me screamed
 when I saw the hallway.
White light.

Buzzing lights.

No music,

just the squeak
 of my sparkly pink shoes

on waxed floors that had seen
 too much
 of what was about to happen to me.
I didn’t cry.

I knew.

The scent of death doesn’t hide,

it seeps—

through fabric,

through prayers,

through the last place he laid his head.
He walked in and never walked out.
Hope,
that traitor,

never said goodbye.
Just packed up and left

like a parent late on rent.
I thought we’d take him home
 with warm blankets and soup.

But we took him home in an urn.
I was ten.

He was gone.

And a part of me
 was buried with him

without a name.

III. Echo (Now)

I still have the shoes.

Tucked in a box like a secret.

The glitter’s faded,

but they still know how to squeak
 when the memory creaks open.
I don’t talk about it much.

The numb is quieter now—

more like static
 than silence.
Sometimes I smell his cologne
 in a stranger’s coat
and forget where I am.
Grief lives in the corners—

folds my shirts wrong,

burns my toast,

waits for me
 at the bottom of old picture frames.
I don’t cry easily.

I don’t break loudly.

But I remember.
And that’s the kind of hollow
 they don’t warn you about—

the kind that doesn't echo

because there’s no one left 
to call back.

In twilight realms where masks adorn like stars,
The moon casts her glow most tenderly
Upon those who dance unadorned by pretense,
Their radiance deemed too bright for mortal eyes.
Your empathy—a garden of midnight blooms,
Protected by the trellis of sacred boundaries,
Not to wither beneath harsh judgment's sun,
But to preserve your light for worthy wanderers.

Those who carved rivers of sorrow in your soul
Yet deny the waters flowing from their hands
Cannot offer reconciliation's sweet nectar.
Peace resides not in their distant approval,
But sleeps beside you, faithful as moonlight,
A companion through your darkest hours.
The distance woven between pain and present
Is gossamer silk that must not be torn.

Breaking patterns is the dance of dawn,
The first light dissolving night's heavy chains,
Your silhouette fading like morning mist
From doorways where love never flourished.
In authenticity dwells your freedom's poetry—
No longer folding your boundless spirit
Into shapes too small to hold your vastness,
Standing unveiled in your own sacred truth.

Touch not the fragile wings of survivors in flight—
Their path traced through storms of betrayal,
The space they've claimed between wound and healing
Is hallowed ground won through countless tears.
Make peace with misunderstanding's shadow,
Release the weight of constant explanation,
For your truth blooms most beautifully
When nurtured in soil that welcomes its roots.