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206 · Jun 18
Wrecking Bloom
Maryann I Jun 18
I plant a garden with trembling hands—
then salt the soil at dawn.
I lace the sky with paper birds
then chase them off with storm songs.

I cradle peace like porcelain,
but breathe too hard,
and shatter it.

The mirror forgives me
until I touch it.
Then it cracks—
right where my face lives.

I keep building bridges
out of wax and wishbones,
then light them from both ends
just to see
if anyone notices
me
burn.

Some nights,
I set fire to every chance I prayed for,
just to prove
I don’t deserve warmth.

And still—
I water the ashes,
hope something bruised
might bloom again.
I’m learning not to push things away just because I’m scared they won’t stay.
I’m trying to grow things without pulling them up to check if they’re still there.
It takes time, but I’m trying—and that’s enough for now.
206 · Nov 2024
Heretic
Maryann I Nov 2024
The air hums with a broken prayer,
twisted in the folds of a dying hymn.
A voice calls from the depths—
not quite human,
not quite lost.


The ground beneath you pulses,
soft as the heart of a phantom,
thrumming with a rhythm
too wild,
too distant,
to comprehend.


Waves of distortion crash,
a shattered glass ocean,
its pieces cutting the silence
like forgotten screams.
It is chaos,
but it is home.


A flicker of something holy,
something heretical,
clings to the edges of the sound—
like a dream that slips
through the cracks of reason,
where belief fades
and doubt takes root.


You step into the void,
guided by shadows
and fractured prayers.
The world bends and breaks,
but still you move forward,
drawn by the melody
that only you can hear,
and the truth that lies
in the shattered notes.


There is no salvation here,
only the quiet descent
into something new—
where the sacred
and the profane
are one.
Inspired by the song "Heretic" by the artist Oli XL
204 · Nov 2024
Liliana
Maryann I Nov 2024
In the quiet dusk, beneath a gray-veiled sky,
A woman stood by the river's edge, alone.
Her name was Liliana, a flower in the wind,
Once vibrant, now wilting in the twilight of her years.


Her tears fell silently, mingling with the soft rain,
As she watched the petals she had plucked, one by one,
Drift down the river, a gentle procession of loss.
Each petal was a memory, a whisper of love,
Now carried away by the relentless current.


Liliana's hands, once tender and warm,
Were now cold, trembling like the autumn leaves.
She had loved once, with a heart as open as the sky,
But time had withered that love, like flowers left to fade.


She followed the petals with her gaze,
As they floated down the stream,
Disappearing into the distance,
Where the river met the horizon,
And the sky kissed the earth with a sorrowful sigh.


The rain washed over her, a cleansing balm,
But the pain remained, buried deep within,
A thorn that refused to be dislodged.
And as the last petal vanished from view,
Liliana whispered a name,
One that the wind carried away,
To mingle with the rain and tears,
Forever lost in the river of forgotten dreams.
203 · Feb 23
First Light
Maryann I Feb 23
The past dissolves like ocean spray,
Its echoes fade, then drift away.
A canvas bare, so pure, so wide,
With endless colors yet to ride.

A door unlocked, a step begun,
A dawn that wakes beneath the sun.
No fear, no weight, just open air,
A chance to live without a care.

So take the brush, embrace the hue,
The world is fresh, the sky is new.
Each moment calls, each heartbeat sings,
A future bright with endless wings.
8. New Beginnings and Fresh Starts
201 · Apr 19
Rio in Bloom
Maryann I Apr 19
Dawn stretches golden over Guanabara Bay,
sugarloaf rising like a dream in stone.
Waves kiss the shore in samba rhythms—
each tide a whisper from the heart of Brazil.

Birdsong rains from the canopy,
scarlet macaws slicing morning light like brushstrokes.
The rainforest exhales its perfume—
a living mural swaying in greens and golds.

Cobblestone streets hum beneath bare feet,
colors bursting from murals and music.
The air tastes of mango and maracujá,
joy lingers in every sun-soaked laugh.

Ipanema gleams like a string of pearls,
bodies bronzed and basking in euphoria.
Even the breeze dances—
flirting with palms, curling through café songs.

From Lapa’s arches to Christ’s open arms,
the city holds you—wide-eyed, blooming.
And oh, to see Rio not just with eyes
but with your whole soul alight.
Rio de Janeiro
200 · Feb 21
Erosion
Maryann I Feb 21
Once, I knew the name I bore,
wrote it bold on every door.
Now, the letters slip like sand,
fading soft beneath my hand.

My laughter echoes, strange and thin,
a song that doesn’t sound like skin.
My dreams grow pale, my voice runs cold,
a story lost, a tale untold.

I am the waves against the stone,
slowly worn and left alone.
A whisper lost, a shadow worn—
a being half, a self outworn.
5. The Loss of Self
Maryann I Apr 11
the trees hum in slow green syllables,
and the wind—
soft as breath against sleeping skin—
slips between the spaces we leave open.

cloudlight spills across your shoulders,
a whisper of morning in hues of mist and mint,
and somewhere, the world forgets its weight.

a petal trembles
on the surface of the pond—
not sinking, not floating,
just… waiting.

you don’t speak.
you don’t have to.
the silence fits
like moss in the shape of your name.

everything softens:
the hours, the outlines,
the ache you thought would stay forever.

here,
time is water.
you are the shore.
193 · Apr 20
Road to Nowhere
Maryann I Apr 20
(This message could save a life.)

The keys are in your hand.
Do not start the engine.
Do not listen to the whispers.
Do not believe you’re fine.

The road stretches dark ahead.
Do not trust the lights.
Do not trust the speed.
Do not trust the alcohol in your veins.

The night is too quiet.
Do not glance at the phone.
Do not look away from the wheel.
Do not think you have time.

The crash comes suddenly.
Do not wait for the sirens.
Do not wait for the screams.
Do not wait for the glass to shatter.

The blood on the asphalt doesn’t wash away.
Do not look at the damage you’ve done.
Do not ask who you’ve hurt.
Do not ask if you’ll ever forgive yourself.

(This message could save a life.)
Is drinking and driving really worth it?
185 · May 30
Persephone’s Teeth
Maryann I May 30
She bites the pomegranate—
not with hunger,
but with a soft kind of ache,
like remembering a song too late at night.

Juice ribbons down her wrist
in rivulets of rubies,
sanguine silk,

each seed a small beating heart
she swore she’d never swallow.

The orchard hums—
a low, bone-deep thrum of honey-thick dusk,
where shadows sleep in the eyes of foxes,
and the air tastes like cinnamon secrets.

There is gravity in sweetness,
a tug between teeth and truth.
She thinks: love is a fruit with a rind too thin to protect it
and eats anyway.

Inside her chest:
a garden blooming in reverse—
petals folding,
color bleeding into absence,

the sound of something unripening.

She is full now—
of myth, of molten memory,
of something holy and ruinous.
She smiles,
and the world forgets
what season it is.
184 · Feb 17
The Jealousy of Destiny
Maryann I Feb 17
Destiny, I once believed, was a force we couldn’t touch,
A guiding hand, invisible, yet steady—
But now, I see it differently.
It’s a person, a jealous shadow,
Watching us, wanting what we have.


It stands, arms crossed, in the corner of our hearts,
Eyes burning with envy—
For the love that flourishes between us,
A love too wild to be mapped,
Too uncontainable for fate’s hand to mold.


Destiny sees what we have built
And wonders, bitterly,
How we crafted something
It never could.
The passion we share
Wears no chains,
And the fire we burn with
Refuses to be dimmed.


Our love flows like a river—
Destiny watches helplessly,
Unable to stop its current,
But aching to know the secret of its course.
It watches as we laugh,
As we dream,
As we share quiet moments,
Whispering futures only we can see.


Destiny could never…
184 · Apr 3
Ever and Again
Maryann I Apr 3
Each time you step into view,
it’s like the first time—
a lightning strike of wonder,
a slow-burning sunrise blooming behind my ribs.

Your eyes catch mine, and I swear—
the world resets.

Every glance is an untouched page,
every smile, an unheard melody,
each moment with you, a beginning again and again.

I have memorized the way your voice folds into the air,
how your hands move like poetry in motion,
yet every time—
it’s discovery, it’s breathlessness, it’s new.

Loving you is an echo with no end,
a star collapsing only to be reborn,
a loop where time folds into itself
and delivers me back to that first look,
again, again, and again…
184 · Mar 3
The Silence Of Goodbye
Maryann I Mar 3
There was a time when your laugh was my home,
When friendship was a soft place, a safe zone.
But the world that should’ve cradled you with care
Let you slip through, unnoticed, unaware.

You wore the weight of their words like chains,
And I, too young, couldn’t stop the rain.
I watched you fade, each day a little more,
But no one else seemed to see you soar.

I saw the cracks in your smile,
The way you shrank with each cruel trial.
The halls grew quieter the day you fell,
A whisper lost in a never-ending hell.

They said it was an accident, a tragedy.
But I knew better. I knew your plea.
I knew the way the darkness crept
Into your heart, the one you kept.

The echo of your voice still haunts me,
A call I never had the chance to see.
I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep,
I drowned in the grief I couldn’t keep.

Your absence crushed me,
I felt the weight of it like a stone.
The world turned its back,
But I was left here…

Alone.

I didn’t know where to go.
I didn’t know how to breathe.
I didn’t know how to scream.
I wanted to vanish,
I wanted to leave.
But your ghost kept me here,
Torn between the silence,
By the shattered fear.
I’m falling apart—
Falling…
apart..
.
I wish I could’ve helped.. I miss my Lily.
182 · Apr 18
Fieldsong
Maryann I Apr 18
The barn hums low like a lullaby,
painted in rust and time,
its roof a resting place
for drowsy pigeons and the last blush of day.

Rows of corn stand like sentinels,
golden-shouldered and swaying,
whispering secrets to the breeze
as it combs through their silken hair.

Cows move slowly through the amber grass,
bells singing soft like wind chimes in sleep,
and chickens scurry with laughter in their wings—
tiny, feathered comets chasing joy.

Above, the clouds drift—cotton-spun dreams
unraveling across an orange-pink sky,
as if the heavens are stretching, yawning,
wrapped in a quilt of light.

The pond is still, cradling reflections
of willow limbs and dragonfly flutters,
its surface kissed by a single feather,
like nature leaving a note behind.

A breeze dances through the wheat—
a golden sigh, a hush of contentment,
while the sun, melting into twilight,
wraps the world in honey and hush.

Here, joy grows like roots in the earth,
quiet, certain, never rushed.
And the heart, like a scarecrow smiling at the sky,
feels full,
feels home.

176 · Mar 2
Muse
Maryann I Mar 2
You hold my words like treasures,
tucking them away in the folds of your heart,
saving each photo, each whisper,
as if they are pieces of me you never want to lose.

You say my name like it’s something soft,
something safe, something yours.
I hear it in the way you miss me,
in the way you tell me I’m beautiful,
as if the word was meant only for me.

Every little message, every sleepy thought,
you catch them, hold them, answer them—
never letting them fade into silence.
You listen, you see me, all of me,
not just what the world sees, but what I am.

You don’t just want my touch,
you want my mind, my dreams, my poetry.
You let me be the poet, and you, my muse—
but I think you are the real poem,
the kind that lingers long after the words are read.

And if love is a dream, then let me never wake,
because with you, every moment feels real.
172 · May 23
Inheritance
Maryann I May 23
I cradle aches
like heirlooms—
not mine,
but remembered

deep in the joints of memory,
where silence once slept
in rooms with hollow lullabies.

I press cool cloths
to fevered skin
with hands that once reached
into shadow
and came back empty.

Now they are full—
of bandages,
of borrowed grace,
of tenderness sewn like stars
into every rough seam.

I stir soup
as if it were a spell,
watching steam rise
like ghosts of things
I used to need:

a steady voice,
a soft no,
arms that didn’t shake.

To care
is to time-travel—

to give the child inside me
what she never received
by giving it
to someone else.

Each thank you
is a stitch
in the tear I carry.


Each healed wound
in another
is a whisper to mine:
you’re not forgotten.
“You like taking care of people because it heals the part of you that needed someone to take care of you.”
171 · Feb 22
What Remains
Maryann I Feb 22
Your hand in mine, a fragile weight,
a thread unraveled, pulled too thin.
The clock still moves, the seasons change,
but time won’t weave you back again.

I speak your name, the air stands still,
as if it dares not let you go.
But silence hums a bitter truth—
some echoes fade, some rivers flow.

So take this breath, this fleeting glance,
before you slip into the past.
For love remains, though you depart,
a haunting ache that’s meant to last.
10. The Final Goodbye
167 · Apr 26
When Wings Weep
Maryann I Apr 26
They flicker—
petals plucked from unseen gardens,
their colors bleeding into the hush of the sky.

A whisper of lilac, of crushed gold,
of rain-drenched sapphire,
they spiral like forgotten prayers.


Underneath the aching hush of dusk,
the butterfly’s wings
shimmer like glass about to break—
fragile, too fragile,
as if beauty was never meant to last.

Mist hums in the hollow between trees.
The meadow, once a cradle of light,
now wilts into sighs,
its perfume dampened with grief.

And still they rise,
a shiver of soft rebellion,
a trembling hymn against the dimming world.


Each beat of wing,
a memory unmade,
a soft ache threading through twilight veins,
leaving ghost-lit trails
in the evening’s failing breath.

Perhaps this is how paradise fades—
not with fire,
but with the slow, silver drowning
of wings too heavy with dreams.
167 · May 11
hush
Maryann I May 11
the wind no longer bites,
no voices call her name,

just the soft hush of rain
kissing the earth
where she once stood.

the ache,
the ever-splintering ache,
has grown quiet—
not from healing,
but from letting go.

she does not cry anymore.
not because she is numb—
but because she is free.
freer than the clouds
that used to pass her by.

bones unclench,
heart unhooks,
lungs forget the weight of air.


no more needles
in the chest of morning.
no more claws
in the gut of night.

her soul, a silver thread,
slips through the seams
of a worn-out sky,
and drifts.

it is peaceful here.
quiet, yes.

but not empty.

those who love her
will ache—
but only because she loved so deeply.
and now,
she rests.

hush—
let her rest.
Maryann I Mar 16
Beneath a sky of quiet blue,
I feel the breeze and think of you—
It whispers softly through the pine,
Just like your fingers brush with mine.

The sunlight warms my face and skin,
But nothing warms me like your grin.
Even the river hums your tune,
A steady rhythm, sweet and true.

The wildflowers bloom along my way,
And every petal seems to say
That love like yours is rare and deep—
A kind of joy I’ll always keep.

I hear the robins sing your name,
I see you in the morning flame—
The way the dawn begins to rise
Feels just like looking in your eyes.

In every tree, in every breeze,
In every hush between the leaves,
I find you there, in quiet grace—
A feeling I could never replace.

No matter how the seasons turn,
No matter what the skies may churn—
You are the calm inside my storm,
The hand that always keeps me warm.

And in the garden of my soul,
You’ve made a home, you’ve made me whole.
165 · Feb 21
Fading Ink
Maryann I Feb 21
If I should vanish, will you know?
Will echoes trace where I have been?
Or will the years, like melting snow,
erase the shape of what was seen?

A name dissolves upon the tongue,
a photograph turns pale with dust.
Once voices sang where silence hums,
once love was more than scattered rust.

The walls forget, the sky moves on,
the earth still spins without my name.
And though I whisper, hold me close,
I fear you’ll never do the same.
8. The Fear of Being Forgotten
158 · Nov 2024
The Quiet Thirst
Maryann I Nov 2024
I was shaped by a quiet ache,
a hollow that stretches with each breath,
a yearning seeded long before I had words
to name it.

There’s a pulse beneath my skin,
a slow, relentless rhythm,
like waves reaching for a shore
they’ve never touched.
It stirs at dusk,
when shadows lengthen
and the world slips into silence.

I’ve felt it, the flicker of something distant,
a glow like a match struck in darkness,
faint but alive,
a promise of warmth
in the chill of an empty room.

I dream of a place I’ve never seen,
its edges blurred, fading as I reach—
a moment that hovers, suspended
just beyond waking.
There’s a voice there,
not mine but familiar,
whispering of things yet to come,
of an end to the waiting.

The night is long and still,
its weight presses down on me,
a shroud that I wear
even in daylight.
I move through it, restless,
my hands outstretched,
searching for something
to fill the space inside.

I was born with this thirst,
a quiet, endless pull
toward the unknown,
like a moth drawn to a light
it can never hold.

And so I wander,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
chasing the faint glow that flares
only when the dark surrounds me.
I linger at the edge,
listening for a call
that I have waited lifetimes to hear.

The emptiness remains,
a companion, an old friend,
its hunger a reminder
of all the things I have yet to find.
I carry it with me, this quiet thirst,
unsated, unanswered,
as the dawn creeps in
and the world stirs to life.
152 · Nov 2024
Pressure
Maryann I Nov 2024
The petals open,
fragile as the thought of ending,
and the bloom sways,
unaware of the silence
growing around it.


Each breath is a weight,
pressing against the ribs,
like soil folding into the earth
underneath an endless sky.


The scent of death lingers
in the softness of the petals,
a sweetness too sharp,
too final.
It smells like surrender,
like the last exhale
before the body falls still.


The flower unfolds,
its beauty sharp as grief,
each layer a quiet plea
for release.
It opens with the same quiet violence
that consumes the soul,
waiting for a moment
when the pressure
becomes too much
to bear.


In the fading light,
you watch the petals curl,
and wonder if they, too,
wish to escape
the weight of their own bloom.


And yet, it's peaceful—
a slow descent
into the dark soil,
where the pressure finally stops,
and the bloom fades,
as all things must.
Inspired by the song "Pressure" by the artist Maebi
149 · Mar 18
Please Stay
Maryann I Mar 18
I don’t know how many ways
I can say please don’t go.
My voice is threadbare,
worn thin by the echo—
of every time I’ve begged
a heart to stay.

Please.
I won’t raise my voice,
I won’t ask for forever.
Just this moment.
Just tonight.
Just your hand in mine
a little longer
before it slips
again
into silence.

Please stay—
even if the light is fading,
even if the world pulls
and your shadow stretches
farther from me
with each breath.

I’ve sung this tune before,
a chorus cracked from overuse—
the needle stuck
on don’t leave me, don’t leave me,
and still, I press repeat,
like maybe this time
it’ll end in a different verse.

Please.
Let this love
be more than a passing song.
Let it be the one
that plays
without goodbye
in every beat of us.

Please stay.
I’ve already lost so much.
Don’t be the next
ghost I whisper to
when the music
cuts out.

Please.
143 · 5d
Spider Lily
She blooms where grief forgets to sleep,
beneath the sallow hush of twilight trees—
a flare of red in softened ash,
the last confession of the breeze.

Petals curled like whispered sins,
each one a blade of memory—
a wound too pretty to regret,
too sacred to let bleed freely.

She doesn’t seek the sun like roses do.
No, she is the flame of parting steps—
ephemeral,
like the breath between
goodbye
    and
      gone.

Born of myth and muddy water,
they say she grows where spirits roam—
a guardian of thresholds,
the keeper of the in-between,
wearing sorrow like a crown
no one dares remove.

And still,
   she rises.
Not for life,
but to remind the world:
some things only bloom
      in farewell.

140 · Feb 27
What if I give up?
Maryann I Feb 27
What if I set the pen down
and let the ink dry in its well,
leave verses half-formed,
like abandoned prayers
that no one will answer?

What if I stop trying,
let the weight of silence
settle in my throat,
unspoken words fossilizing
into something brittle,
something useless?

What if I forget how to dream,
let my hands go slack,
my thoughts unspool
into empty corridors
where even echoes
refuse to stay?

What if I stop writing,
stop speaking,
stop being—
until I fade like a name
erased from the margins,
a story untold,
a breath no one remembers?

What if I give up?
And what if no one notices?
140 · Nov 2024
Ode To My Pen
Maryann I Nov 2024
Oh, humble pen,
You are the voice of my silent thoughts,
A river of ink that flows with my dreams.
In your slender form,
Lies the power to birth worlds,
To carve emotions into paper's skin,
To whisper the secrets of my soul.


What are you, but a vessel of words?
Yet, within you, lives the spark of creation.
You dance across the page,
Trailing ideas like the stars in the night sky,
Binding them in the constellations of my mind.


Do you not see, oh simple pen,
The weight you bear?
More than just ink and metal,
You hold the essence of my being,
The dreams I dare not speak,
The fears I cannot name,
The love I yearn to share.


But what is love, without your gentle touch? 
Without you, the words remain trapped, 
Unformed, unspoken, 
Like a songbird caged within my heart. 


And yet, you are silent, 
Your power dormant until called upon, 
Resting in my hand, waiting, 
For the moment when thought meets ink, 
And the world shifts, 
From nothing to something, 
From silence to symphony. 


Oh, pen, do you know your worth? 
In your simplicity, you hold infinity, 
A universe within each stroke, 
A life within each line. 


And as you lie there, resting, 
Do you dream of the stories yet to be told? 
Do you yearn for the touch of my hand, 
To bring forth the tales locked within my heart? 
Or do you wait in quiet anticipation, 
For the next breath, the next thought, 
The next journey we shall embark on together? 


Oh, pen, You are more than just a tool, 
You are a companion, a confidant, 
The keeper of my deepest truths, 
The bridge between my mind and the world. 

 
In you, I find solace, 
In you, I find strength, 
In you, I find my voice. 


And so, I honor you, humble pen, 
For in your ink, I am reborn, 
With each word, 
each line, 
I become, 
I am, 
I write.
139 · Apr 14
blocking?
Maryann I Apr 14
So… I’ve noticed something a little strange—two people have now messaged me and then blocked me shortly after. I’m honestly confused. I’m not naming anyone in this post because I don’t want to stir up any unnecessary drama, but if someone genuinely wants to know, I’m open to sharing privately. I’d just really like to understand what I might’ve done to end up being blocked by both of them.
123 · Nov 2024
Mary
Maryann I Nov 2024
Mary, a name, not just a whisper,
But a haunting echo of a wrong,
An imprint left by years of scorn,
Borne on the breath of regret and sorrow.


Mary, the syllables heavy,
Each letter a shackle to history,
Carrying the weight of unspoken grudges,
Of mistakes and broken promises.


The eyes that once shone with innocent hope,
Now dulled by the tarnish of disdain,
Mary—each mention a scrape of bitterness,
A reminder of all that’s been lost.


In the hollow spaces where your name lingers,
The silence screams louder than words,
Regret twisting like thorns around the memory,
Sadness pooling where love once dared to tread.


Mary, an echo of a choice not taken,
A ghost in the mirror of faded dreams,
You bear the brunt of every forgotten apology,
A name suffused with the agony of the past.


In the rooms where once was laughter,
Now only the hollow chime of contempt,
Mary—crushed beneath the weight of expectations,
A symbol of what might have been.


Forgive us, for we know not the damage,
The cruel irony of naming, the sharp sting,
Of turning beauty into a battlefield,
Where every utterance is a scar.


Mary, cursed with the burden
Of an inheritance you never sought,
Your name, a shadow of what was lost,
A testament to the bitterness we carry.
120 · Mar 7
Hidden in Verse
Maryann I Mar 7
They’ll never notice—
not in a place like this,
where sorrow is stitched into sonnets
and pain rhymes with grace.

They’ll never ask—
not when metaphors mask the weight,
when a sigh in a stanza
is just art, not ache.

They’ll never suspect—
not when every line is dressed in beauty,
when ink drowns the whispers
too quiet to hear.

They’ll never know—
not unless they read between
the spaces where silence lingers,
where the words don’t quite say
what they mean.
.
Maryann I Jan 20
Beneath the weight of grief’s relentless tide,
Where shadows linger, and the heart must yield,
A softer voice, a quiet light, abides,
To mend the wounds no time alone can heal.

The earth still turns, though loss has stilled the air,
And every dawn is edged with tender pain.
Yet love remains, a flame beyond compare,
A whispered vow: their light is not in vain.

The winds that sigh through ancient oaks and pines
Carry the echoes of their cherished song,
A melody that threads through fragile minds,
A promise that the soul still journeys on.

In every tear, a memory takes flight,
In every ache, a bond no death can break.
Their laughter dwells within the quiet night,
Their love, a gift the heart will not forsake.

So let the sorrow come, but not despair,
For in the stillness, consolation grows.
The ones we’ve lost are never far, but there,
In every bloom and every breeze that blows.
112 · Aug 2024
Endless Waltz
Maryann I Aug 2024
In the moonlight’s soft embrace, we begin our waltz,  
Two souls entwined, bound by time's unyielding thread.  
Footsteps echoing in the void, where silence falls,  
A dance that never ends, where every word is said.

Your hand in mine, as we glide through shadowed halls,  
The world around us fades, and all the stars align.  
In every turn, every breath, eternity calls,  
Whispering secrets of a love that will not decline.

Through the endless night, where dreams and darkness blend,  
We move as one, defying the grasp of death’s cold kiss.  
No dawn to break, no final step to send,  
For in this dance, we find our endless bliss.

As the stars dim and the universe starts to fade,  
We’ll dance on, forever, in this waltz we’ve made.
Maryann I May 24
the day I lose feeling
will not come softly.

it will arrive in a hush—
not a peaceful one,
but the kind that devours echoes
and drapes the bones in frost.

I will no longer know the sting
of sunburned sorrow,
nor the hush of a warm hand
brushing the tears off my cheek.

no more trembling
under a thunder-skied guilt,
no more gasping at poems
that bleed with someone else’s grief—
I will be blank.

a shell left in the wake of a tide,
where even the salt forgets
the memory of waves.

how cruel,
to be untouched by ache or awe.
to no longer cry
at the sight of spilled light
on cold pavement at dusk—
to not care
how a crow calls at dusk
with a voice like cracked obsidian.

when I can no longer feel,
do not call it numb.
call it death.
call it
gone.

and when you find my name
beneath dust
in a book no one reads anymore,
know that once,
I was fire.
and it took the whole night sky
to put me out.
The day I lose feeling will be the day I’m dead because I will no longer be able to feel anything.
What happened  
to slow-dancing  
in rain-slicked streets,  
to trembling fingers  
folding paper hearts  
sealed in wax-red promise?

Now,
we’re offered
chains dressed as charm,
red flags stitched into roses,
gaslight glows mistaken
for moonlight.

They call it love—
but it bruises.
It breaks.
It bleeds.

We settle
for breadcrumb kisses,
for apologies soaked
in venom and velvet.
We wear wounds
like wedding rings,
and call it passion.

What happened
to poetry—
to consent,
to slowness,
to souls peeling back
each other’s layers
like pomegranate fruit—
bitter, sweet, divine?

Now they want
power,
ownership,

ego-fed feasts
where one devours
and the other withers.

We’ve forgotten
how to write love
without trauma
as punctuation.

I don’t want
a story
where I’m shattered
then thanked
for still being beautiful
in pieces.

Give me
gentle.
Give me
growth.
Give me
a partner,
not a puppeteer.

And stop calling
toxicity
a twisted kind
of romance.
It’s not.
It never was.
Why are toxic relationships being normalized?
What happened to romance?
I’ve been collecting broken mornings
in jars that once held
moonlight.

Each one fogs the glass
like a soft exhale
from a dream I couldn’t finish.

But still—
the birds keep singing,
and the clouds,
like gentle leviathans,
float on as if they know
the sun will show up again.

I pass trees that bow
from the weight of weather,
yet bloom
without apology.

I want that kind of peace—
not loud,
not sudden—
but the kind that grows in the cracks
of yesterday’s heaviness,
that drips down like honey
into a life
that remembers sweetness.

Some nights I cry
for the version of me
who thought love had to hurt
to be real.

I’m softer now—
not weaker.
There’s a difference.

And I know
the world doesn’t hate me.
It just rains sometimes.

And sometimes,
the right people
arrive like spring
after a ruthless frost—
quiet,
warm,
and entirely enough.

I’m not there yet,
but I’m going.

And maybe that’s
the most beautiful
part.
They called her child,
yet the stars bent down to listen
when she spoke.


She was born
with galaxies behind her eyelids,
ash of ancient moons
in the crescent of her palms.

In classrooms,
she learned nothing new—
only watched
as the world caught up
to what her marrow already knew.

She stitched silence
into her sentences,
wore grief like pearls
strung along the collarbone of time.

Rain would hush for her,
mirrors would blink twice,
and clocks sometimes refused
to tick in her presence.

She moved
like someone who remembered
being fire
before flesh.


And when the grown-ups
chuckled at her wisdom,
she simply smiled—
a soft, secret smile
like she’d seen their ghosts
and offered them tea.
“wise beyond your age”

— The End —