Mending
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She stopped mistaking chaos for love and learned to turn around when a road makes the body remember fear.
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The past still lives in courtrooms, hospitals, and old names, but each morning the garden keeps proving life can grow beside memory.
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Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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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.
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Unsent words become birds inside the chest, then paper cranes once she accepts that some stories will never reach their destination.
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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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After they left, the fire remained—and grief slowly revealed itself as the same stubborn life still writing, rebuilding, and choosing tomorrow.
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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.
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A goodbye can become a scar, but silence teaches the mind to build whole conversations inside the empty space.
Between Bruises & Blooms 