What is grief,  
if not love  
wandering in search of a home?

It lingers in hollow spaces,  
quiet corners of empty rooms,  
whispering to walls  
that no longer echo back.

Grief is love without a pulse—  
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,  
a name spoken into silence,  
hoping for an echo  
that will never come.

But still,  
I need it to become something.  
To sprout wings  
or take root in the soil—  
to turn into something I can hold:  
a garden,  
a letter,  
a breath.  
Something to name the weight.

Grief is love unbound—  
it spills,  
it seeps,  
it finds the cracks in days and nights,  
asking, always asking:  
Where now?

And yet—  
grief moves.  
It carries yesterday’s tenderness  
into tomorrow’s hands,  
grows roots in memory,  
builds altars from the ache,  
finds its place  
in every sunrise,  
every tear  
that softens the ground.

Grief is love  
that will not rest,  
will not relent.

But one day, I believe—  
it will bloom.

I wish I’d known that last goodbye
would echo like a final sigh.
Your eyes were quiet, voice unsure—
a silence I chose to ignore.

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t cry,
just turned and left beneath that sky.
If I had known, I’d have begged you to stay,
to steal a few more words that day.

No calls, no texts, not even views,
just empty screens and phantom news.
I hold my phone, then drop it fast—
what’s hope but shadows from the past?

They say move on, that time will heal,
but grief’s not something you can feel
and fix like glass that’s cracked in two.
I’d just have held on tighter—
if only I knew.

That goodbye was forever.

I don’t want to be a poet anymore. I’m tired of analyzing every detail, of twisting bruises into blooming flowers, of digging through wounds that are trying to heal just to extract metaphors. I’m exhausted from dressing up the pain that I feel in pretty words, pretending it might make everything okay. I used to capture constellations no one else noticed, to read love in the silence between words. I would bleed myself into pages, quiet as a mouse in the night, just to make sure no one else felt alone. But now the ink feels thick with grief. I press my pen to the page and nothing comes. The silence is softer these days, but it cuts just the same. I miss the simplicity of not needing to observe everything, not trying to translate chaos into clarity, not caring so much about the meaning hidden in every moment. Sometimes things are just messy, and that should be enough. I write and write, but if no one understands, does it even help? I bare my soul only to be wounded again. I ache to heal without having to carve it out in verse. Is the beauty of life really something words can hold, or is it only real when felt? I lie awake each night, slipping further from sanity, trying to find comfort in company, trying to make friends just to keep the demons at bay. I fight my battles alone, but is it so wrong to hope someone else’s light might help guide me through?

35$
They made me pay
To watch you die
And leave today
Mom made me an out patient,
24 hours
My happiness, joy, quickly sours
To put you to sleep
Told me not to weep
Euthanasia (<25 lbs)
Your limp paw
The last thing I saw
As you were swept away
Your weak kitty smile
My throat filled with bile
As you were taken today
Euthanasia (<25 lbs)