There is something quiet
in the way
the flowers bloom
against the gray,
among abandoned doorways
and forgotten walls,
as if they belong there—
their softness brushes
against decay,
like a secret
they aren’t trying to keep.

You stand still,
and time slows.
Nothing moves but a subtle drift,
nothing speaks
but the quiet cascade of petals—
growing where they shouldn’t,
thriving where the world
has grown tired.

It’s almost enough
to make you believe
in something—
a small kind of hope
that hides itself
in unexpected places,
waiting to be noticed.

A poem
should be tight
and have so many
words—
there,
I said it.

From the desk
of a self-aware paradoxical meta-poem.

Wood splinters,
as doors slam—
Someone always ends up leaving.

Down the hall,
voices rise, then settle—
we were taught not to talk to strangers,
even the ones who once loved us.

Love is a blanket,
too short to cover our feet—
stretched too thin,
it always tears us.

A house can break in small ways—
first in the sharp cut of words,
then, in silence,
until even the walls stop asking for us.

In the end—
there is nothing left
but the frame of a doorway,
a threshold where no one waits—
just air shifting,
and a ghost stepping through.

There is a version of me
that clings to rooms,
where the lights are off—
a ghost of careful gestures,
quiet nods, lips bitten
to keep the words
from meaning something.

A body bent
under its own restraint.
This part of me—
the one who swallows
the sharp side of no,
who shrinks
when the world demands space,
when there is no room
to breathe—

She was only trying
to protect me,
but comfort is not enough.
I was just aiming to survive
instead of enjoying life,
as if quiet meant peace.

So, I wash her
off my skin—
slowly,
as if peeling a layer
too thin, too tender
could break her.

I tell her—
she didn’t do anything wrong,
but I do not ask her
to stay.

I leave her
in a place
where fear
is louder than love,
where smaller
felt like protection,
where I told myself
that less of me
was easier to bear.

I was wrong.

Now,
I make room
for the chaos
in my voice—
the uncontained portion
of myself,
soft and tender,
ugly and jagged,
a body taking up all the space
calling itself freedom.

I think of the knife often—
how it must have shined
beneath the low lamplight,
its eager edge,
carving moments
from the relentless ache
of living.

I imagine the world in my palm—
warm, throbbing softly,
as if it still listened—
the wind in wheatfields,
the splatter of paint,
spread thick across canvas,
like a wound.

What did I hope it would say—
did I think it might carry the words
I could never find—
soft-spoken, soothing enough
to prevent a quiet rejection.

I wonder if they understood—
the sounds I had to silence,
how every brushstroke
was an excuse,
too loud to admit.

The fields were alive,
the sunflowers bent toward me
as if drawn to my warmth,
but the sky—
always felt bluer
than my heart could endure.

There is a kindness in the earth,
how it accepts what falls,
takes it all in.
The way it keeps the secret
of every shivering root.

I pondered,
as the blood streaked down my neck—
a rusted ribbon tying me back
to something harsh,
something that could never
leave me behind.

I send my body
into the clouds—
scattered like seeds
beneath the same stars
that refuse to be still.

What is left of me
is what I could not give away—
a hunger so vast,
it can only be seen
in strokes of blue and yellow—
and the light between them.

It doesn’t stay neat—
nothing does.
Not the room.
Not the mind.
Not the feelings
I have for you.

I spill everything out—
ink, blood, tears—
whatever I hold
too tight.

Even the rain
trips over itself,
but you call it
beautiful—
you always do.