A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
There is magic that summons.
Magic that heals.
Magic that protects.
And then—
there is the spell someone casts when they promise tomorrow and never return.
No smoke.
No chanting.
No moonlight required.
Only hope.
Hope is the oldest curse I have ever survived.
Every time I read a poem on hope, I’m always always reminded of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with feathers”, and for years, I haven’t been able to remove this association, as much as I dislike it–I personally always thought of hope as the agent for prolonging grief and suffering. So today, reading your “Hope is the oldest curse” makes me feel like someone understands ❤
Thank you. ❤️ I’ve always believed hope can be both a blessing and a haunting. Sometimes it’s the light that guides us home; other times it’s the ghost that keeps us standing at a door that will never open. I’m grateful the poem found someone who understood that.
I understand of course, the role hope plays in healing, but at the same time, I think I’m too nihilistic. It’s hope that leads to devastating hurt in the first place: you keep yourself open to disappointment the more you hope for the better. Perhaps later in life, I will look back at myself and laugh at what a fool I was for thinking like this 🙂 Thanks for your poem tho 🙂
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Between Bruises & Blooms 
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