silence swings over waters as if...
it rehearses its unseen so...
to fill  in the depth of blanks
a stratified time inhabits the landscape
orphic dreams morph into your flesh
the wind collates its courage and rage
like someone who falls into a self
my words bite the shape of a scream
the hunger of love descends language into crumble
the beauty of lungs full of air is misleasing
when I am waiting for silence to miscarry its void

I used to chase the mirror’s grace,
Looking for love in a stranger’s face.
Tried to fit in, trimmed my soul to size
Buried my truth just to feel “alright.”

I wore their words like second skin,
Let shame decide the shape I'm in.
But no one told me healing starts
When you sit with your aching, fractured parts.

So I whispered soft to the girl inside,
The one I used to run from, hide.
I told her, “You’re not too loud, too much
You’re real, you’re raw, you’re brave as such.”

I stopped apologizing for the way I feel.
Started peeling back the masks I sealed.
Let my flaws breathe, gave my past a name,
Not broken
just beautifully untamed.

Acceptance ain't a finish line
It's the art of choosing me each time.
When I'm quiet, when I rage,
When I doubt, when I’m center stage.

Now I don’t ask to shrink or change.
I love this soul, a little strange.
She’s not perfect, but she’s finally free
And that’s enough for me to be me.

I must look ridiculous
to these other café patrons—
just a woman with orange-dyed hair
blinking back stubborn tears,
trying not to cry
into her honey, lemon, and ginger.

But I sit there, half-failing
to maintain my composure.
I look anywhere else—
up at the ceiling,
out the window,
trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

These tears dare to seep,
but this sadness needs to steep—
not pour.
Or else they'll overflow
in overwhelm.
I must take the helm.

So I take a sip:
that warm, sweet bitterness
rights the ship.
And the gentle calm
soaks back in.
They may glance over and wonder
What must be on her phone
To evoke such emotion?

Oh, don't mind me
I'm just writing poetry
about a silly girl,
and her hopes for understanding
Falling onto deaf ears yet again
and again,
and again,
and again
One more long swill
A sharp intake of breath
They prickle at my eyes,
Again

My teacup is empty -
I think I'll need another ***
For the sake of my sanity
I cannot let them see it pour
For a flood, an empty teacup
Has begot

(a tribute to C.S. Pacat)

on a bed
of white flowers,
etched on my wrist,
i wear it as a vow,
above the place
my pulse
tenderly blooms,
forgetting to lie.

her soft handwriting
is a reminder of a journey
i had once taken
between the lines,
forgiveness forming,
from lashes to petals,
on bruised pages.

i carry her with me,
their story, her essence,
kingdoms folding into skin,
her words marking
not only a change,
but a becoming —
the slow-burn
of identity
i can finally place.

A new day dawn's.
My heart is ablaze.
I've made it.
I've made it.
I'm still here.