#misalignment
We are the ones who lower our voices
before anyone asks.
We fold our wants into neat napkins,
set them beside plates that were never ours.
Kindness is a door left unlatched
not because we are foolish,
but because we believe the night will knock
before it enters.
I loved like a lighthouse loves fog:
steadily,
mistaking closeness for salvation,
calling ships that only wanted the rocks.
You wore charm like borrowed perfume:
sweet, temporary, evaporating
the moment I reached for permanence.
I mistook your absence for mystery.
Somewhere between apologies and patience,
I shrank.
I learned how to translate neglect
into a language that sounded like hope.
They say we accept the love we think we deserve;
mine arrived chipped,
wrapped in newspaper promises,
and I thanked it for not cutting too deep.
Now silence sits beside me,
heavy as unwashed rain.
Giving up isn’t loud,
it’s the quiet decision to stop setting the table
for ghosts.
I am unlearning the geometry of less.
Re-teaching my heart its original scale.
If love comes again,
it will have to speak clearly
no riddles,
no vanishing acts,
no bruised constellations posing as fate.
Because I am done mistaking hunger
for devotion,
and I will no longer call the wrong hands
home.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 6:00 PM UTC
He paints bright yellow hues where my Indigo is home–
Never bothering to rinse his brush.
I know he thinks he's helping,
But this painting has never needed
his touch.
My palette changed in the years since meeting him,
Some by force–
Other tones by choice.
But this canvas is mine and always has been–
When did falling in love mean losing your voice?
So what if my skies are purple?
With pink clouds and
Seas of bright green.
If my storms are black and neon,
It's not for you to change the whole scene.
Bob Ross taught me to paint bushes–
Never said anything had to be inside.
There's one untouched teal shrub left on that painting,
It's the one place I run to hide.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 2:36 PM UTC
You can just tell
Yah know?
We speak in rhythms,
Passionate, fortified rhythms but
often misaligned.
I won't be blind to our truth, no
but don’t expect me to bask in some
Wonderland.
Defective perfection,
A ghastly unfortunate paradox and
A laden aura unlike any other.
My soul aches to ripen
so very desperately
But this love has taken it’s
Toll.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC