The woman and the girl
are one in the same

She finds joy in wall rainbows,
And loves the rain

She makes crockery
Imprinted with dinosaurs,
She likes shopping at thrift stores
For clothing that screams whimsy -

Beaded necklaces,
dark velvet
And cute embroidery

Videogames
With quests primeval,
And moral threads
That aren’t so medieval

They whisper,
“There’s more to the journey
than simply good vs evil.”

                        
                                              The void still exists -
                                                  That gaping abyss

                                                           Cold as glass,
                                                         But weightless

                                              It does not pull now
                           She can stare all she likes now
                              It's all but a fascinating sight

                                              There is no question
                                                     Whether to stay,
                                                                     Or to go

                        Eleven was such a long time ago

To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

The baskets spill, the piles are high,
unfolded truths that will not lie.
A basement door is pressed and bound,
with secrets clothed but never found.

I sort the fabric, piece by piece,
for some bring pain, and some bring peace.
The child I was still leaves her mark,
a tender seam, a hidden spark.

The mother’s cold, the lineage torn,
old stains of those who came before.
Yet in my hands I choose what stays,
what must be washed, what I’ll erase.

Each folded shirt, each garment worn,
a burden shed, a self reborn.
And through this work I come to see:
not every thread belongs to me.

This is war!

Not with guns, not with flags, but with myself. Every scar,
every voice in my head is an enemy line I’ve crossed. I fight
with silence, I fight with scars, I fight with the version of me
that swore I’d never get this far.

From being a punching bag to punching back. But it’s hard
not to fall back—into old habits; retreating from myself,
and telling my reflection to fall back...

Headlights slice the black, brief flashes through the dark.
Shut my eyes over myself, let their auras pass like thanks.
To all who hurt me: I’ve grown from you all, see my thanks
and my exhaustion. I’m too tired of you all, to carry your
remarks, too deaf to listen to people who say you owe them all.

Between myself and a tertiary exterior: a third self waits—
the superior version of me, complete, unbroken.
Body, mind, and soul to show off to the outside world...
still searching. Thankfully, I’m on the right road.

I showed one of my poems to my best friend.
He was horrified.
Said I write poems as if I were a submissive woman.

I found it funny —
that’s not how I’d describe myself.

But if I think about it,
for a long time I tried to fit
into the mold of a Proverbs 31 woman —
the perfect keeper of the home,
the crown upon her husband’s head.

Eventually, I realized I didn’t fit there.
Not because she was flawed —
but because it was an expectation too small
for someone who is far greater.

I wear my own crown.

Sometimes I ask myself
Why I can’t win this fight,
How to win this fight.

And then I realize
It’s about letting go,
Lowering the importance.

But the urge to fight will return—
My body already knows this.

Now that I know
I can simply release,
If I choose to fall back into this fight,
I’ll be keeping the victim’s story alive.

And that’s no longer
My story to tell.

Lost the battle, won the war