a restless jitter;
skin-deep promises, unkept:
no nails left to bite.

Don't you know that you are loved?
You are loved more than life itself.
Don't you know how much you are worth?
You are worth more than the treasure on earth.
Don't you know your past does not define you?
And, when you are free, nothing can confine you.
Don't you know how beautiful you are?
More brilliant than the sun and every star.
Don't you know that there is hope
And a place of peace beyond all scope?
Don't you know you are wanted and cherished?
That what was before is gone and perished?
Don't you know there is a real belonging?
New life, like the morning sun, is dawning.
Don't you know you are more than fear, than doubt?
There is a light inside you that won't be put out.
Don't you know what lies just over this hill?
And in the climb your lungs he will fill
Your strength and spirit will be renewed,
And you will find a most pleasant mood.
Joyful tears flow as mountain springs
To take in the splendor of such things!
The soul: it longs and even faints
For the brush of love by which He paints.
Don't you know you do not need to hide
From that which waits just on the other side?
Don't you know life is a chance worth taking?
That you are a masterpiece in the making?
Don't you know you're not in this alone?
That we know the ache, that we also groan?
Don't you know it doesn't matter what you've done before?
Don't you know your life is all this and so much more?

Mary, a name, not just a whisper,
But a haunting echo of a wrong,
An imprint left by years of scorn,
Borne on the breath of regret and sorrow.


Mary, the syllables heavy,
Each letter a shackle to history,
Carrying the weight of unspoken grudges,
Of mistakes and broken promises.


The eyes that once shone with innocent hope,
Now dulled by the tarnish of disdain,
Mary—each mention a scrape of bitterness,
A reminder of all that’s been lost.


In the hollow spaces where your name lingers,
The silence screams louder than words,
Regret twisting like thorns around the memory,
Sadness pooling where love once dared to tread.


Mary, an echo of a choice not taken,
A ghost in the mirror of faded dreams,
You bear the brunt of every forgotten apology,
A name suffused with the agony of the past.


In the rooms where once was laughter,
Now only the hollow chime of contempt,
Mary—crushed beneath the weight of expectations,
A symbol of what might have been.


Forgive us, for we know not the damage,
The cruel irony of naming, the sharp sting,
Of turning beauty into a battlefield,
Where every utterance is a scar.


Mary, cursed with the burden
Of an inheritance you never sought,
Your name, a shadow of what was lost,
A testament to the bitterness we carry.

I can tell
from the smile draped across
your cheekbones
and your boisterous thought
pinned like a malicious lapel
three odd words—
“bursting with life.”

Painting the corpse on display,
crammed inside a casket,
dressed in birthday suit.

Am I aching?
Am I in distress?
Do you need words
to tell you of these things?
While you hold a living funeral
for such feelings.

In between us,
a wall,
Before: you said you wanted connection, as you laid one brick after another.
Maybe if you went over you’d see
the emptiness you banished me to.

You,
cold as an ethereal summer,
sifting through gaps of a cracked heart
after being battered by promises offered.

Well excuse me,
if I can't get over the hurt
You do not have to be grateful.
You do not have to see beyond yourself.
You can continue, as you have,
to orbit your own sun.

No, I refuse you
patting tears I cannot cry.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, my heart, once offered
like an open palm full of seeds,
learns to close, to protect itself from
your drought and wildfire.
You are not the IRS,
neither an accountant,
nor a broker, but a breaker you are
love is not a transaction,
not a ledger to be balanced.

I should have flown with my flock
against the gale of your indifference,
but such curse is youth,
when naiveté is in abundance.

Perhaps the wilderness out there has something safer to offer,
something tamed,
and,
somewhere, the dogwood blossoms
like heaps of uncaring December, covering the ground
in a blanket of white petals.
I want to lie down there,
to press my ear to the earth
and listen to the roots growing,
to the slow, steady drumbeat
of my thumping heart or whatever
is left of it.

I don't need your approval to bloom
so watch me unfurl next season,
my leaves reaching for a kinder light,
my roots deepening into richer soil.

I wish my silence were words for you to read.