I didn’t scream.
I said “it’s okay”
like it might be.
Like I still might be.

There’s something unholy
about seeing the scaffolding of your nose
in the mirror
and still breathing through it.

About smelling your own meat,
like your skin was whispering
something rotten
and you couldn’t tell
if it was a warning
or a wish.

There’s something biblical
about giving a chunk of your face
and being expected to explain
like it wasn’t still happening,
like I should be grateful it wasn’t worse.

I say I’m fine.
What I mean is:
I’ve survived quieter devastations,
softer disasters that brought flowers after.
I rearranged them twice.
First like a gift,
then like a grave.

And when I say
it wasn’t the dog that scared me,
what I mean is:
I’ve always known
something would come for me eventually,
and it wouldn’t growl first.

So no,
I wasn’t scared of the dog.
I was scared
that I didn’t scream.
That I didn’t even flinch.

Scared that my first instinct
was to apologize
to the teeth.
That I was more afraid
of being dramatic
than being disfigured.

And later,
when I stood in the mirror,
I thought:
This is the part where someone is supposed to hold me.

But the room stayed empty.
So I held still instead.
I’m still holding.

I’m still holding.
I think that’s what the flowers were for—
to make it look like I wanted to.
so when I stayed still,
they could call it peace.

Climbing and descending winding hills and mountain ranges,
Crossing valleys, threading through narrow paths,
Blowing through twisted branches and soft leaves,
Raising flags, straining stubborn masts,
Pushing heavy clouds, tearing the darkened sky,
Driving restless currents and seas —
Overcoming the void.

But at times, it quiets into a gentle breeze,
Giving way to comforting stillness,
To the humid silence of a blazing day,
To the star-strewn, domed moonlit night,
To the morning bathed in ascending sun.

Among agitations, flows, pauses, rhythms and courses,
In a delirious tempo of surges and setbacks,
Time dwells —
In the moment, the age, the occasion,
In cycles that return like seasons,
Like the expectation of light in the auroras.

Entwined with feelings,
It arises in the fleeting peak of joy,
Like an eternal farewell embrace;
In the echoing longing of an instant,
Like the anguish of a vibrant memory;
In the stifling anxiety of what’s to come,
Like an agonizing rush of adrenaline;
In the fear that paralyzes and silences,
Like the despairing terror of war;
In the fleeting rest of happiness,
Like a lasting repose of gentle promises;
In the scars left by conflict,
Like intrigue nurtured by indifference;
In the forgiveness that wounds and frees,
Yet leaves murmuring scars.

Time flows through it all,
Sometimes dragging, sometimes rushing through
The passing hours —
Impersonal, unending,
Like the changing landscape;
At times intimate and brief,
Like the clearing of thoughts
That only time knows how to overcome.

There’s something about the way he doesn’t chase…

It’s not the swagger. Not the smirk.
Not the way his shirt clings when he works.
It’s how he doesn’t beg the light
he walks in shadow, and still feels right.

He doesn’t claim me. He just looks
and in that look, he rewrites books.
The kind with knights and velvet beds,
with whispered vows and tangled threads.

He moves like time forgot to rush.
His silence holds a speaking hush.
He doesn’t grab he lets me choose,
And yet I burn if I refuse.

His hands could bruise, but never try.
They trace my skin like lullaby.
He guards, not cages. Leads, not binds
And in his arms, the world unwinds.

He calls me wild. He keeps me free.
He doesn’t need to conquer me.
And still, I’d kneel, I’d bend, I’d melt,
For how his quiet power’s felt.

There’s chivalry in how he waits,
In how he touches no locked gates.
And when he moves, it’s not to own,
But to remind me, I’m not alone.

So here’s to him: the kind of man
Who doesn’t boast, but simply can.
Who wins no throne, but takes command
Just by the way he dares to stand.

The shadow of the aloe plant
Is as still as the sunlight
That crawls along the wall.

Boredom
Nothing to do
Nothing to say
Nothing to feel
Its peaceful
It’s perfect
If only it didn’t feel so wrong
The yearn for excitement
Something to do
Something to say
Something to feel
It feels so right
If only it didn’t lead to a want to do nothing
A need for Boredom
Nothing to do
Nothing to say
Nothing to feel
And such the cycle goes on
And on
Forever longer

"This is the compassion I'm willing to give!"

This is the compassion you're liable to get.

Silence. Stillness. Absence.

When eve's dark hand descendeth, dropping,
Where fancies creep and whisperings invite to linger here,
She sits upon waters gray as stone,
Veiled in thought, the world stunned and far from here.

The pond gives back lights from ****** and vain,
A whirl of gold, a promise of delight,
But underneath the green and brooding quiet
Lie unrevealed secrets, and unbetrayed fates disposed.

She sits calm, a word unspoken
In mind, peace to stay and be given.
City noises, music so far,
But here she'll reside, peace recovered.

The furrowed brow in contemplation,
Of bygone days, of union.
World so big now—
But all that it contains is here, within.

The moon kissed the forehead of the pond,
as trembling stars embraced its calm,
as if the heavens, vast and deep,
had found their home within its arms.

The marsh watched on with murky eyes,
laden with a heavy gloom,
no star had ever called its name,
no light had graced its silent tomb.

It whispered low, a voice of silt:
"Why must I drown in shade and hush?
Why does the sky refuse to rest
upon my waters, still and lush?"

The wind, a sage of wandering fate,
brushed softly past and dared to say:
"The less you swallow, the more you see,
for clarity holds eternity."

Yet envy wrapped the marsh in dark,
it clutched its depths, it pulled them tight,
it drank itself into the void,
and severed all from warmth and light.

The pond, so quiet, asked for none,
yet bore the stars within its chest—
and in its stillness, silver-clear,
it cradled time. It cradled rest.