Between Bruises and Blooms

At two in the morning, my house is held together by cold coffee, half-folded laundry, and promises I’ll finish tomorrow.

Tiny socks hide inside hoodies like they’re playing games only exhaustion understands.

Myst watches from across the room, a silent witness to another midnight shift, offering judgment instead of assistance.

The world is asleep.

But mothers like me are counting bottles, checking monitors, moving laundry from one mountain to another, wondering if mornings ever notice how much survives the night.

There are dishes that don’t know what daylight looks like.

A blog waiting for another poem.

Dreams balanced beside responsibilities that refuse to wait until sunrise.

Outside, the stars burn quietly.

Inside, I keep burning too.

Not because I’m unbreakable.

Because four little hearts have taught mine that love doesn’t punch a clock.

So I fold another shirt.

Match another sock.

Whisper tomorrow into another overflowing basket.

And somewhere between the clutter, the silence, the cigarette smoke drifting through an open window, and the cat pretending she owns the place—

I remember.

This messy little life is still the one I fought so hard to keep.

At two in the morning, it doesn’t look beautiful.

It looks real.

And tonight, that is enough. 🌙