Healing & Becoming
Poetry about surviving, rebuilding, learning yourself again, and becoming someone new without pretending the bruises never happened.
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An inbox fills with strangers mistaking exposure for confidence and access for consent; the modern trench coat just happens to be a phone.
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A stranger leads with the least interesting thing about himself and waits for admiration that was never owed.
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Another unwanted message earns exactly one response: delete. Attention and access are not the same thing.
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There were a thousand ways to get her attention—conversation, humor, kindness, curiosity—and he chose the least interesting one.
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A phone does not turn exposure into permission; digital flashing is still entitlement dressed up as a notification.
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A digital memory resurfaces a year later, raising the uncomfortable question of how many people received the same intimate performance.
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A woman looks back at everything she tried to keep alive and finally names the last thing she ever owed the person who kept hurting her.
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Old houses, old murders, and fictional ghosts are easier company than the thoughts that refuse to explain themselves.
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Some nights the only way to quiet my own world is to disappear into somebody else’s until morning.
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“I’m okay” becomes a fluent survival language for pain that feels too heavy, complicated, or burdensome to explain out loud.
