insomnia
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She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
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Morning arrives from the wrong side of insomnia, catching her awake as darkness packs itself away one pale color at a time.
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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.
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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At two in the morning, cold coffee, laundry, and a judgmental cat hold up the same house motherhood keeps running through the dark.
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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
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At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
Between Bruises & Blooms 