How can you hurt the one person you protect?

The one person you trust with all your heart not to break it.

How can you tell her she deserves the world, and then take it?

How can you proclaim your love with poems and songs and hugs, and passion, just to contradict it all?

How can you face your own reflection, while your identity is stuck with her?

How could I be the one who sunk you?

Who loved you, but dug you, deep into the Earth I said I’d give you.

How?

The answers lay with you, in your modest crown. I will find them there, and You will be my queen again.

Our hearts are hot plastic
They morph they're elastic
Our lips are sporadic
Like actions of addicts
And you are my habit
I can't stop from having

Your spring unwinds still
in bold flits like mourning cloaks
bright marigold wings
into abyss, you call out
Star yet stirred to shadows

Because I saw you
by Morning Star

I could have broken you,
the way you broke me.
Piece by piece,
with silence that stung
and truths you never deserved.
But I didn’t.

I held my hurt like glass—
sharp, delicate,
aching in my hands.
And I let it fall
only where it wouldn’t cut us both.

Because I saw you—
not the mask,
not the bravado,
but the hollowness behind it.
And I understood.
People hurt
when they’ve forgotten how to heal.
People leave
when they’ve already left themselves.

I broke.
Quietly.
Not all at once,
but slowly, like dawn
peeling night from the sky.
And in that breaking,
I found light.
Not in you.
Not in revenge.
But in me.

You see,
I don’t need to prove anything.
Not to someone
who couldn’t hold what was real.
I don’t scream,
I don’t chase,
I don’t fight shadows.

I rise.
And that is louder
than anything you ever said in silence.

Because the truth is,
you didn’t destroy me.
You revealed me.
And I am still standing—
brighter,
softer,
undeniably whole.

---

“To the Woman I Once Called Friend”

I walked beside her in silence today,
Not as the girl who broke — but the one who sees.
No truth passed my lips,
but it screamed behind my ribs.

She laughed — unaware — and my heart cracked,
because I know what it feels like
to be the last one to find out
your world was never real.

I could have told her.
But today, I chose grace,
chose to carry what I could not undo
with hands open, not with blood.

I was once fooled too —
by a man who wore honesty like a mask,
who knew our friendship
and still pressed his lips against betrayal.

I cannot take back the nights.
I cannot rewrite the sin.
But I can walk beside her
with no illusions in my breath.

And maybe that’s how the universe heals:
Not in confession,
but in quiet atonement —
in choosing to love gently
what you once helped break.

I see her.
And I ache.
And I swear, I will never
be blind again.


---

for Forgiveness and Healing 🌙

> “I am not my mistake.
I am my return to truth.
I honor the pain,
but I no longer carry the shame.
I choose grace. I choose light. I choose to rise.”

she was something
no
is something
to behold
to touch
to make beg and shake and groan
to laugh into a sugar cookie
or four
and whisper the recipe across her bones

she was something
no
she is mine

safety is not always comfort
and comfort is not always safety

but he was home.

and I was a stop along the way.

how do you showcase
that it’s not just the success metric
the ache roiling within

It’s that running became safety
a reclamation
a chant
a war cry

Droplets of who I was
bit by bit
Lost in the same few miles

and compressed
through blood
through screams
and loose gravel

stripping seven layers of skin
or maybe just hell

dying to the flame
to the fear
no small deaths for me

to become
nothing
but
I am

They pine for days that never were
through *** stained teeth and stagnant slur
where blackface clowns and monkey chants
still echo loud in bitter rants

The snow was whiter, summers long
they hum some half remembered song
no climate lies, no “woke” offence
just ignorance dressed up as sense

They clutch their flags like sacred skin
wrap rot and rage and hate within
A pint, a bet, a Brexit cheer
no future grows, but still they sneer

Stagnant days spent waiting
wishing something meaningful
to happen
Pints, regrets and the stench of gammon