poetry
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Writing the hard things is not about making pain beautiful; it is about finding honest words and refusing to hide what survived.
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Secrets lose their power once fear stops feeding them, leaving peace as the only knowledge she needs to keep.
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A photograph of a boy with a pelican becomes a doorway back to the voice that once crossed an ocean to make a frightened girl feel safe.
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At seventeen, safety arrived through a voice across the distance, leaving behind the ache of wondering what might have happened at another time.
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Some people arrive like seasons; this is for the one who stayed through grief, hospital rooms, silence, and everything that followed.
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A late-night smoke does not promise to fix grief or erase hard realities; it simply offers a little honest quiet.
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At four in the morning, sleeplessness, moonlight, and cheesecake become the strange little ritual of a mind that refuses to power down.
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Smoke becomes a small place to unclench when grief and the world demand more weight than one body should have to carry.
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A hope for the day relief no longer comes with judgment, conditions, or the fear of losing everything she has fought for.
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No test can measure the nights, panic, meals, mornings, and quiet work behind a mother proving she can keep choosing her children.
Between Bruises & Blooms 