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 Dead Keep Finding Me
I thought I had already mourned you. That was my mistake. I thought grief was a dooryou walked through once,bloodied your feet on the threshold,and somehow came outdifferent enoughto survive it. But the dead keep finding me. In old voices.In impossible reunions.In names spoken softlywhen I have almost learnedhow not to flinch. Danika. Like a…
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The Stag King Remembers
Maybe worlds do not forget. Maybe they only bury things— beneath oceans,beneath stone,beneath fifteen thousand yearsof new namesfor old gods. Maybe an antler thronecan burn in one worldand rise again in another. Maybe someone carried it. Maybe someone lied. Maybe history,like magic,has always knownhow to slip between cracks. Because somewhere,a king sits beneath the weightof…
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The Shape of Home
I used to thinkhome was a place— four walls,a locked door,laundry folded badlyon the back of the couch,toys multiplying overnightlike some tiny plastic curse. But I know better now. Home is this. A boy with messy hairand a grin too big for his faceholding his baby sisterlike she has always belongedinside the circle of his…
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All of Them Home
For so long,home felt like a sentencemissing half its words. Beds madefor children sleeping somewhere else. Shoes by the doorthat did not belongto every pair of feetmy heart was counting. I kept listeningfor voices that weren’t there. Kept imaginingthe sound of all of themunder one roof again— the arguing,the laughing,the sudden crashfrom another roomfollowed byI’m…
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Even From My Knees
I know overwhelmed. I have worn it like another layer of skin. But even from my knees, I would have stayed.
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The Things That Stay
Grief does not always leave; sometimes it grows roots beneath the ribs until healing means learning how to bloom around it.
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Three A.M. Is Still Motherhood
At three in the morning, two wide-awake babies and one exhausted mother prove that motherhood does not care what the clock says.
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Too Soon to Feel This Soft
A new connection arrives quietly enough to feel safe and suddenly has her smiling at a screen like she forgot she still could.
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The Shape I Am Becoming
Changing does not betray the woman she was; it simply means some survival versions no longer need permanent rooms inside her.
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The Waiting Has Teeth
Uncertainty turns silence into sirens and thoughts into sharp little things, forcing the body to survive futures that have not happened.
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 