Healing
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It’s four in the morning. The world has gone quiet,but my mind never got the memo. The clock keeps counting secondslike they’re something I can spend,while I bargain with sleepthat refuses to bargain back. The house is still.The coffee pot is empty.The moon watcheswithout offering advice. So I stand barefootin front of the refrigerator,bathed in…
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Maybe one day I won’t have to choose between relief and proving myself. Maybe one day healing won’t come with conditions. Maybe one day I’ll light a joint without wondering who might judge the smoke. Until then, I’ll keep choosing the future I’ve been fighting for— one clear morning at a time.
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There are therapists who charge by the hour. There are forests that charge nothing. And somewhere between them is the curl of fragrant smoke lifting toward the ceiling like prayers without a religion. I don’t chase oblivion. I chase quiet. The kind where anxiety loosens, creativity stretches, and laughter finds its way home. Healing doesn’t…
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They’ll always have an opinion. Too loud.Too quiet.Too broken.Too healed.Too honest.Too much. They’ll call art a wastebecause they cannot seethe pieces of my soulpressed between the lines. They’ll ask why it doesn’t rhyme,as though painhas ever followedsomeone else’s rules. They’ll laugh at the wordsthat kept me breathing,dismiss the pagesthat carried mewhen nothing else could. They’ll…
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I used to think poems were made of metaphors. Turns out… They’re made of people. Of the ones who leave fingerprints on your soul without ever touching it. Now every page starts with your name, even when I don’t write it. Every ending sounds like hope. And every love poem is just another way of…
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If you knew how often I reached for my phone just to see your name… Would it scare you? Or would you smile, knowing someone’s heart has learned the rhythm of your existence? I carry you like a favorite secret. Not hidden. Protected. Because some things are too beautiful to leave in careless hands.
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I used to think healing meant forgetting. That one day the memories wouldn’t hurt. The scars wouldn’t ache. The past wouldn’t whisper my name. But maybe healing isn’t becoming someone new. Maybe it’s learning to love the person who survived. The one who stayed. The one who fought. The one who kept choosing tomorrow even…
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They gave the monster a name. Not fate. Not chance. Not something I did wrong. A name made of too many syllables and not enough mercy. For weeks, I carried guilt like it belonged to me, turning every memory over in my hands, searching for the moment I thought I had failed you. Then the…
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I have been broken open more times than I can count. By loss. By love. By goodbyes I never got to prepare for. I have carried storms inside a body that still learned how to hold sunshine. There were days I wondered if I was disappearing. But somehow, between the cracks, something kept reaching upwards.…
Between Bruises and Blooms 