On good days, I turn the pages,
Of the book with poems I once wrote.
So much pain in silent cages,
Words I bled but never spoke.

In black ink, lines carefully formed,
The pain I didn’t understand.
Black words my silence adorned,
Softly held by a warm hand.

He couldn’t even finish a bowl of sorbet—he said it was “too sweet” for him.

Little did he know—he was too sweet for the cruel world he was born into.

How do I
make peace
with my enemies
when their desire
is to take the pieces
out of me?

A cabin in the woods
With a fireplace, the smell of wood in the air
Fresh baked bread in the kitchen
And a cat purring on the windowsill
There is a bubbling river flowing in the back

This is my happy place in my imagination
Where I am surrounded by greenery and life
Where time seems to slow and sunlight seems to shine a bit brighter
A place of safety, a place of happiness, a place of rest