The Library

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

  • Preparing the Nest

    Laundry, made beds, stocked cupboards, and careful little chores become a countdown to the sound of her boys coming home.

  • The Places That Kept Me

    Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.

  • There Is No Door Anymore

    The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.

  • The Witch Who Survived Until 3 A.M.

    At three in the morning, survival looks less like magic and more like a chipped mug, vitamins, cold water, and the promise to wake up tomorrow.

  • Night-Blooming Jasmine

    Forests understand what people forget: broken branches, fallen trees, and decay can still become shelter, soil, and beginning.

  • Letters That Never Learned to Fly

    Unsent words become birds inside the chest, then paper cranes once she accepts that some stories will never reach their destination.

  • 4:00 A.M.

    At four in the morning, the babies sleep, the house belongs to silence, and Honey kneads the weight of the night out of a tired lap.

  • The Fire I Kept

    After they left, the fire remained—and grief slowly revealed itself as the same stubborn life still writing, rebuilding, and choosing tomorrow.

  • 3:38 A.M. — Honey’s Turn

    Once the babies finally sleep, Honey claims the quiet hours, curling close as though she has been waiting for exhaustion to make room for her.

  • The Words We Never Spoke

    A goodbye can become a scar, but silence teaches the mind to build whole conversations inside the empty space.

Stay in the Garden

New poems, new rooms, and whatever blooms next—delivered without making you hunt through the archive for it.