She sketched the quiet,
with charcoal shadows and haunting trees,
bending to winds that whispered lies,
calling, but never her name.

Wildflowers leaned in defiance,
toward a light she could not feel,
children’s laughter, untamed rivers,
while hers unraveled into dust.

An old soul, they said,
drifting through doors left ajar,
a wanderer in borrowed lives,
but always a stranger,
always a ghost.

She craved the world,
its wild crescendos, its burning skies,
but the edges cut too deep.
Her hands, blistered from endless reaching,
held truths too sharp to release.
The rain came and kissed the earth,
but her skin held the stains,
red as warnings,
swollen like secrets buried alive.

The bruises healed but lingered,
etched on the walls of her mind,
like shadows curling tight
around a room with no escape.

She tasted love once,
a fleeting hymn in a cathedral of storms,
a breath of warmth on frostbitten lips.
He devoured the letters she wrote,
exhaling truths that burned through her chest.

No one knew the weight she bore,
the silence stitched across her ribs,
like velvet sewn with broken glass.
She wrote, she spun fragile threads of light,
a tapestry too beautiful to wear,
her soul adrift in a realm
untouched by what she could not name.

In the end, she lived
in the spaces between,
between the screams,
between the quiet,
between the words
she dared not sing.

Submerged beneath the lake’s golden iris,
her body drifted in surrender,
listening to the music of the universe
spilling its secrets into her veins.
The bird of paradise rose in silhouette,
its plumage a fleeting memory,
like the faces of past lovers
blurring into the haze of confusion.

The hills, black and steady,
stood watch over her solitude.
Their silence mocked her shame,
woven like a spider’s web,
each thread a detail she could not undo.
The lacework of her thoughts—delicate,
but broken—
postponed the weight of reality
for another breath,
another ripple of escape.

This was her last resort,
a refuge abandoned to the wind,
to the flight of birds
and the courage of stillness.
She swam deeper,
chasing the reflection she longed to become,
never wanting to be found.

Her forget-me-not eyes,
a map of forgotten borders,
traced the land’s open wounds.
Crimson rivulets bled through
the margins of untamed fields—
each step a line she refused to erase.

The air burned with unspoken names,
his gaze a steady tether
to a world she no longer trusted.
Even his touch,
a quiet echo, could not
mend the fissures of her running.

Inside her, war assembled itself—
not with banners,
but with the slow friction
of light against shadow.
Her body bore each sacrifice,
stitched together
with the threads of her silence.

She walked, balancing the ache—
between ruin and rebirth,
celebrating not the end,
but the fragile victory
of standing still
in the trembling light.

She breathes in a room humming with life,
a fragile song, not loud but steady,
a bridge between two worlds I can’t yet cross.
The air smells like morning,
crisp, new,
the kind of scent that cradles hope in its arms.

I drive to the beach,
rain dancing on the windshield,
weaving patterns that feel like promises.
The sand is cool beneath my feet,
the kind of cool that wakes you up
and whispers, you’re alive.

I pick up a stone—
smooth, enduring, timeless—
and toss it into the ocean.
The splash feels like a spark,
a seed of something unseen
but waiting to bloom.

Back home, her letters spill across the table,
ink alive on paper,
strokes of dreams I hadn’t known.
Friends I wish I’d met,
questions that feel less like fear now
and more like paths still open.

It feels like lighting a candle,
not the flame,
but the glow that follows,
where everything softens,
and even shadows turn kind.

In her story, there is a kiss,
but it’s not a prince—it’s the sky,
a quiet reunion between breath and stars,
a tide that always finds its shore.
The wind carries her voice,
not lost, but endless,
folding into the waves’ rhythm.

I sit in the car,
watching raindrops glide like silver threads.
Each one falls,
joins,
becomes part of something greater.
And I know I’ll keep walking with her,
not waiting,
but living—
in this space between waves.

My words black and blue,
fractured echoes of a silence that roars.
I’ve finally lost you,
or perhaps just buried you deeper,
beneath the weight of unspoken truths.

Abuse doesn’t hide far;
it lingers in the marrow,
seeping into glances,
the falter of a smile
that struggles to reach the eyes.

I remain small,
and cracked till now,
a vessel that holds fragments
but leaks with every breath.

To share is to shatter,
to place the jagged edges of myself
into the trembling hands of another.
But I’ve learned—
not all hands are steady.

Secrets live best in shadows,
nestled beside shame,
wrapped in vines of memories
too sharp to untangle.

The key rests in the jungle of my soul,
forgotten,
or perhaps,
guarded.