poetry
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By six o’clock, the house finally loosens its grip and ordinary chaos settles into a golden, temporary quiet.
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The hour before evening softens the day’s sharp edges and gives a tired house one small place to exhale.
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After months measured in empty rooms and phone calls, home finally has a date and hope dares to become something concrete.
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After years of surviving, gentleness feels almost unfamiliar—until love begins to look less like fireworks and more like safety.
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She does not need saving—only someone who can see the tired eyes, old wounds, and chaos without asking her to become smaller.
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Softness was mistaken for weakness until roots learned how to break stone.
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Survival changed her enough to feel unfamiliar, but the woman in the mirror is finally someone she can recognize with pride.
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She is not only what happened to her; she is every scar, lesson, mistake, and second chance that kept moving forward.
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There were chapters she did not think she would survive, but the story kept turning because she did.
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Healing does not always erase pain; sometimes it means growing large enough that the wound no longer takes up the whole life.
Between Bruises & Blooms 