Between Bruises & Blooms
A poetry archive for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
Welcome to the library. Here you’ll find poetry and reflections rooted in motherhood, grief, love, survival, healing, darkness, nature, and the ordinary moments that refuse to stay ordinary.
Latest Writing
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The Quietest Knock
Funny,how ghosts never knock. They just find the window,press their palms against the glass,and call it curiosity. I wonder what you came looking for—a confession,a villain,proof that the storyyou were handedstill fits neatly in your mouth. Careful. Poetry has teeth. And some gardensonly look beautifulbecause you cannot seewhat was buried beneath them. You may read…
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The Case That Got Away
Some monsters get handcuffs. Some get courtrooms,cells,a number where their name used to be. And somewalk out the fucking door. Twenty years later,I still remember the boynobody could savebecause grown men had money,lawyers,and enough silenceto bury the truth alive. Billy Tripley walked. The detectives knew.We knew. But knowinghas never been the same thingas proving. So…
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The Woman Who Stays
She has heardevery version of hell. Children whisperingwhat monsters didbehind locked doors. Women apologizingfor surviving. Men swallowing shamebecause someone taught themvictimhoodhad a gender. Still,she sits beside them. Still,she lowers her voiceinstead of raising it. Still,she looks into facesthat have forgottenhow to trust and gives themone thingthe world already stole— choice. There must be nightswhen every…
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The Room With No Windows
There is always a roomwith no windows, a metal table,two chairs,a box of tissuessomeone keeps replacingbecause griefnever runs out. This is wherethe worst thingthat ever happened to youbecomes evidence. Where your shaking handsare asked for details. Where strangerswrite downthe color of the walls,the hour,the smell,the sound you madewhen you realizedno one was coming. And somehowyou…
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The Funny Man Knows Too Much
The funny manalways knows too much. That is whyhe keeps laughing. He has seenwhat people becomewhen nobody is watching. He knowsinstitutions have teeth. He knowspower rarely admitswhen it is hungry. So he makes jokesabout conspiracies,government files,aliens,politicians, anythingto keep the room laughinglong enoughthat nobody notices how tired his eyes are. Some men wear armor. Some carry…
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What They Take Home
Nobody tells youthe dead follow detectives home. Not like ghostsin white dresses. Nothing so mercifully obvious. They followin smaller ways. A photographthat will not leavethe back of your eyelids. A child’s bedroom. A mother’s scream. The soundof somebody askingwhy. They follow youthrough the front door, sit beside your childrenat dinner, crawl beneath the sheetsbetween youand…
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Punchline
Do you always turnpersonal questionsinto jokes? Only when the truthhas teeth. Only when your handsget too closeto the locked drawerbehind my ribs. I learned youngthat laughtercan change the subjectbefore anyone noticesyou are bleeding. So I became funny. Quick enoughto make you laughbefore you could askwhy I flinched. Sharp enoughto turn concernback on itself. You ask…
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Angels at the Window
I dream of angelswith clean handsand mouths full of mercy, but morning always finds mewith smoke in my lungsand old ghostssleeping at the foot of my bed. I have begged heavento leave the porch light on,just once,so I could rememberwhat it feels liketo be expected somewhere. Instead,the dark knows my name. It curls beside melike…
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When the House Finally Sleeps
all four of them are finally dreaming, and the house,for once,has stopped asking things of me. no cups to fill.no blankets kicked away.no little voices callingmomfrom somewhere down the hall. just silence—soft,strange,almost holy. and me,with a headache bloomingbehind my eyeslike a stormthat waited politelyuntil everyone elsewas safe. I should sleep. I know I should. but…
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The Ones Who Leave to Save Us
Some people leavebecause they are cowards. Some leavebecause staying would cost too much. And some— some tear themselvesout of your lifewith both hands bleeding,because they have convinced themselvestheir absenceis the only gift they have left. A mother stands at the edge of deathand chooses her children. Not softly.Not beautifully. No final lullaby,no gentle apologyfor every…
Stay in the Garden
New poems, new rooms, and whatever blooms next—delivered without making you hunt through the archive for it.
Between Bruises & Blooms 