poetry
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Motherhood introduces us to impossible versions of ourselves: exhausted, fierce, tender, and somehow still standing.
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Tiny hands know only that her arms are home, never seeing the battles she fought just to keep showing up.
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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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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
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A familiar commenter keeps returning to the same haunted houses and poems, becoming a quiet companion at the edge of the lantern light.
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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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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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Justice may still be face down in the deck, but hope needs somewhere to rest while court dates keep living in the body.
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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 