Under the moon, and under the stars
I found your eyes like glowing moons
They healed my scars.

Gazed in your eyes, felt a gentle touch
Whispered your name, and it meant so much.
Held your hand for the first time,
And in that moment I knew you were mine.

I think it's time to share my heart,
To let you in, and never depart.
Our names are written upon the stars,
Together forever, no distance too far.

I found peace in your violence
And in your chaos I found silence.

We are so many things non-expressively.
We hold our most precious truths in our hearts,
knowing that a witnessing makes them no more real.
In not demanding their performance, lies veneration.
This silence.
This solitude.
This conservation.
This honour.
This unity between self and the hearts significance… a maturing, a deepening of reverence, of self knowing and being.

Many days have passed since I wrote something good
Maybe that's a sign of my inner world quieting down
Maybe in silence poetry has no place
When the wounds stop hurting and the heart stops weeping
There is nothing left to write about
Or at least not with the same urgency
No words that boil to be written
No feelings eating you alive
Just life filling your cup
Significant small things
Meaningful acts
Deep conversations
Home cooked meals
And cozy blankets
Have given me more peace
Than you ever could

The eyes—mirrors of sins, fragments of something deeper, darker—reflected back as she stared, hollow but alive in the stillness. She felt the starvation of the beast within her, pacing, clawing, a quiet desperation gnawing at her ribs. Her wings spread like the golden dawn's promise, a cruel mirage of escape, yet the weight of life pulled her back, anchoring her to the earth.

In the quiet hours, he whispered, we’re always alone, and the words nestled like burrs in her mind, scratching, lingering. She felt their truth seep in, unavoidable and raw, threading itself into the fabric of her mind like stitches holding together a wound that refused to heal.

Vivid dreams clawed at her in sleep—visions of other lives, other faces, shadowed figures speaking to her in gestures, fingers dancing in sign language, secrets woven in the air. She would wake in paralysis, shackled in silence, eyes wide as if staring into a void that she knew was watching her, always watching.

Scars of hope, she thought, tracing the lines on her arms, the stories she'd written in flesh, layered beneath the numb veil of sedatives. She had cut past ties in time, sharp and clean, slicing away the tethers that bound her to memory, to faces that no longer lingered in her dreams. Every attempt had been a rebirth, each suicide a reawakening of truth. And yet, she had awoken again, the wilting pulse of survival pressing her forward.

The elders would decide—her fate, her future, as if it were some verdict to be handed down from faceless arbiters of her despair. She walked into the darkness as if it were her home, her familiar lover, arms open to its hollow embrace, knowing it would never abandon her. There were no more tomorrows, only a slow descent into silence, punctuated by the beat of a dying heart.

And as the night stretched on, she listened

there's a little room
with a round door
in the back of my heart
with a view of the ocean
it's here where i find myself
forgiving everyone and everything

the floorboards are worn smooth
from all my returning
i pass through corridors
where conversations
circle like trapped birds

but here, in this back room
there is only morning light
on bare wood, and a single chair
where i sit and watch waves
erase themselves over and over

sometimes i stay until sunset
when the water turns to copper
i know i'll leave again
dissolving into the sweet
clutter of being human,
my heart a crowded kitchen

but the door stays there
round like a full moon
waiting, and the waves
keep writing their one word
over and over: return