emotional healing
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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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“I’m okay” becomes a fluent survival language for pain that feels too heavy, complicated, or burdensome to explain out loud.
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A poem about leaving one dangerous place only to mistake another for safety.
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Consent is not complicated: ask, wait, respect the answer. A notification is never permission.
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A poem about refusing to let a breakup be rewritten as a mutual ending.
