He said,
"You always make it harder, don’t you?
The shortcut’s right there,
but you lace up your boots for the storm."
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I like the sting of gravel underfoot,
The bruises on my knees that sing like hymns
To a Blessed Mary I don't really know,
But she feels softer
Than the buckle of his belt.

And the words—
Oh, the words,
They’re like little knives
Tucked inside his good intentions.
"This is for your own good,"
But what if my good
Wants to run barefoot
Through wildflowers
Instead of praying for a miracle
That never quite lands?

Lipstick red like fresh wounds
Isn’t fooling anyone,
But it’s my war paint.
Cranberry smile stretched wide,
Hiding a scream that could crack glass,
Hiding the scars beneath my blouse.
I walk the hardest path,
But isn’t that the one
Where the sun hits just right?

And at night,
When the buckle’s hung and his words are ash,
I sleep to find the open fields.
Fields where my mistakes grow like dandelions—
No one beats them out of me there.
I pick them, blow them,
Forgive myself in soft whispers.
Maybe next time, I’ll bloom for me.
Maybe next time,
I’ll leave the storm behind
And just run.

Beneath the moon’s cold, watchful eye,
A tree stands silent, wounds run deep.
Its bark is scarred; its sap won’t dry,
For every name, it’s bound to keep,
A curse etched there for souls to weep.

The lovers carved with thoughtless blade,
A fleeting vow, a whispered kiss.
Now shadows dance where dreams once played,
And roots ache for a simpler bliss,
While haunted whispers twist and hiss.

Its leaves grow heavy, dark with grief,
Each scar a wound that will not fade.
No time nor sun brings it relief,
For memories cruelly invade,
And turn its strength to ghostly shade.

Yet still it stands, though bent and worn,
A bleeding shrine to fleeting youth.
Its rings hold tales of hearts forlorn,
Each scar a fragment of the truth,
A silent ode to love’s unsooth.

Oh, bleeding tree, what stories keep?
What specters linger in your boughs?
Do ghosts of lovers dream or weep,
While nature kneels in solemn vows?
Your endless scars, their endless plows.

We grip the day like a child grips
a parent’s hand,

trusting the pull forward,

but night comes, dark and wet,

a mouth of fears opening wide—

we fight inside it, each breath a battle,

and by morning, we are raw,

but whole, stitched together by the sharp

thread of surviving ourselves.