She carried ghosts in mason jars,
lined them up on windowsills
like preserved peaches,
sweet and rotting in the light.
Her thoughts were birds
with broken wings,
circling the same dead tree
in her mind's backyard,
never landing, never flying away.
The therapist's office became
a confessional booth for the godless,
where she paid by the hour
to excavate the archaeology
of her own ruin—
layer by layer, year by year,
until she found the fossil
of the girl she used to be.
She spoke in riddles
wrapped in barbed wire,
each word a small violence
against the silence
that had been her longest
relationship.
Her trauma wore her clothes,
walked in her footsteps,
answered to her name.
She was a ventriloquist
for her own pain,
mouth moving but the voice
always coming from somewhere else.
In group therapy,
she sat in circles
like a séance for the living,
watching other people's demons
dance in the fluorescent light,
recognizing her own reflection
in their fractured mirrors.
The healing came in small doses—
bitter pills she swallowed
with coffee that tasted
like hope mixed with resignation.
Some days she felt like origami
being carefully unfolded,
other days like paper
being torn apart.
She learned to name her monsters,
to feed them scheduled meals
instead of letting them
devour her at random hours.
She built a zoo in her chest
with proper cages,
visiting hours,
do not feed the animals signs.
The girl who needed therapy
became the woman who sought it,
who paid for it,
who sat in uncomfortable chairs
and did the work
of becoming human again,
one broken piece at a time.
She almost became my mother again.
But not quite the same.

In the cathedral of my chest, the bellows wheeze and strain, each breath a prayer through glass— transparent, brittle, breaking.


The vapors rise like incense from the altar of my need, silver ghosts that dance between my ribs, between the spaces where my lungs once sang their steady hymn.
Now they collapse inward, twin flowers closing at the first frost of dawn, petals folding, folding until only stems remain— hollow reeds that whistle with the wind of wanting.


My eyes become black mirrors, pupils swallowing light like twin suns going supernova, expanding past their borders until the iris drowns in its own reflection. I see everything and nothing, the world a kaleidoscope of fractured possibilities.


Sleep becomes a foreign country whose language I've forgotten, whose borders I can't cross. The night stretches like taffy, sticky and endless, while my mind runs marathons through mazes made of memory.


In the chemistry of surrender, I am both the experiment and the element being tested— volatile, reactive, changing states from solid to liquid to gas, dispersing into particles too small to hold, too light to land.


The vapors know my name in languages I've never learned, whisper promises in compounds I can't pronounce but understand in the deep grammar of the body, in the syntax of suffering that needs no translation.


Here, in this laboratory of longing, I am the beaker and the flame, the reaction and the residue, dissolving into something both more and less than what I was before the first breath let the ghosts inside

In the silence where angels once walked, Where footsteps of mortals have faded, One purple rose blooms in defiance— Your beauty, unbroken, unshaded.
The serpent has slithered away, His whispers dissolved in the wind, And Adam's descendants have crumbled To dust where their stories begin.
But here in this garden forgotten, Where thorns crown the memory of trees, You stand like a violet flame Dancing wild in the ghost of a breeze.
Your petals hold twilight and starlight, Deep purple as bruises of night, While Eden lies barren around you— You are darkness that blazes with light.
The rivers have dried to remember, The fruit trees bear only their scars, Yet you are the poem that remains When the garden has emptied of stars.
No serpent to tempt, none to fall, No paradise left to defend— Just beauty that blooms in the ruins, A purple rose world without end.
In this graveyard of innocence lost, Where silence has swallowed the songs, Your beauty persists like a secret That to no one and everyone belongs

Waves crash against unyielding stone, A ceaseless dance, ages-old and known. The sea, relentless, wears the cliff's face, Yet rock stands firm in stubborn grace.

Beneath the surf, unseen and slow, Roots of coral steadily grow. In darkness deep and waters cold, New life takes shape, vibrant and bold.

The stone erodes, the coral climbs, Their fates entwined by tides and time. In struggle fierce and beauty rare, They shape each other, unaware.

So too our hearts, in love's embrace, Are molded by what we face. Through storms of doubt and calm delight, We wear down walls and reach new height

In shadows cast by fleeting time,  
I wait for you, a silent chime.  
Dreams whisper softly in the night,  
But dawn brings doubt, a fragile light.  

Each moment stretches, heavy, long,  
A melody of hopes, a muted song.  
I grasp at memories, faded and thin,  
Longing for the day when we can begin.  

Will the stars align, or will they part?  
Is there a chance to heal my heart?  
In silent desperation, I quietly roam,  
Counting the days 'til you’re finally home