Not a beat is skipped
Or a doubt held within
These hearts are open
Our words are true
We hold no worries
Because we have each other
We fret at nothing
Because we know we will get through

My bones are young. They know this land. They were created, formed, and tendered in this land, but my blood. She is ancient. My blood speaks of my ancestors. She cries out from injustice. From pain and suffering. Her strength is unmeasured. My blood demands justice. Her power building, supported by my mothers and my grandmothers. We will not let you destroy us.

men of endurance
will often take the back seat -
they’re driven by poise.

I make them smile,
not for ease,
nor for the brief bloom of laughter—
but because the world is a weight,
and lightness must be carved
by hands willing to bear the chisel.

I have seen sorrow move like a tide,
dragging its wreckage ashore,
leaving eyes hollow, shoulders bent,
hearts shaped like doors
that open to emptiness.

I have watched the weary—
not dying, but unlit,
not grieving, but undone—
souls curled inward like autumn leaves
that never learned the grace of falling.

So I place joy like a candle
in the cavern of the ribcage,
let it flicker against damp walls of doubt,
let it whisper—however briefly—
that there is still warmth, still wonder,
still a reason to lift the chin
toward the sky and call it home.

A smile is not salvation,
but it is rebellion—
against the hush of despair,
against time’s indifference,
against the notion
that we are meant to suffer in silence.

Let them call me foolish—
say laughter is fleeting,
that joy is a trick of the light.
I will still shape it, scatter it,
send it forth like a dandelion seed
that does not care
where the wind takes it—
only that it was given,
only that it was free.

The walls tremble before the doors do,  
before his voice splits the air like a storm,  
before Mom folds herself into silence,  
before my brother pulls me into the closet,  
his hand firm over my mouth,  
as if my breath could betray us.  
Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.”  
But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries—  
and wonder if children like me  
ever learn how to sleep.  

I stay because I love them,  
because they need shelter, food, warmth—  
because he wasn’t always this way.  
Because I don’t know how to leave  
with nothing but two small hands gripping mine.  
It’s not always bad. Not always.  
And they need their father.  
Don’t they?  

She won’t leave. She can’t.  
There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline—  
not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him.  
A good man. A working man. A provider.
So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell—  
but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes.  
She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay.  
Because that’s what mothers do.  

You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you?  
Men get angry. Women overreact.  
He’s stressed; she should be more patient.  
He works hard; isn’t that enough?  
At least he’s here. At least we have a roof.  
At least the kids have a father.  
At least.

For the kids, she stayed.  
For the kids, I watched and learned:  
that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you;  
that family is loyalty even when it bleeds;  
that silence is safety even when it suffocates you.  

For the kids, I found someone just like him.  
For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm.  
For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them—  
but we were already broken in their image.  

For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long.  
For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe:    
“It’s different this time.”    
“It’s not so bad.”
“We’re doing it for them.”  

Love does not slam doors off their hinges.  
Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves.  
Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore.  

Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion—  
or sons to wield anger as power over others.

Love is open arms and steady hands;  
it is words that heal instead of wound.  
Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears.

Love is leaving when staying means breaking—  
it is showing your children that love should never be feared.

Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength.  
Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear.

Love is a child who never has to wonder:  
“Is this normal?”

I wore my heart like heavy armor,
Fighting shadows, none of them true.
Quixotic in my relentless fervor,
A soldier lost in skies of blue.

The strongest people are often the quietest,
Their shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of the world.
They listen when others crumble,
Piecing together broken hearts with steady hands.
Their words soothe,
Their presence steadies,
And their silence feels like a refuge.

But when their own walls begin to crack,
When the weight they carry grows too heavy,
Their voices falter.
Soft cries for help,
Eclipsed by the noise of lives they once held together.
Their pain fades into the background,
A whisper swallowed by the chaos of others.

They are seen as unshakable,
An unyielding constant in a storm.
But even the tallest trees sway,
Even the strongest pillars crack under strain.

Still, they stand,
Hoping someone will notice the way they lean,
Hoping someone will hear the faint echoes of their ache.
But most days,
Their own needs dissolve into the shadows,
Invisible in the light they give to others.

And in the stillness of their loneliness,
They wonder if anyone will ever listen
The way they have listened all along.