survival
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Some cravings survive long after the danger does, leaving the body to remember what the mind already knows was poison.
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Choosing joy does not erase old pain; it simply refuses to let every bruise, promise, and goodbye own the rest of the story.
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The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
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The moon could not return what was lost, but beneath it she learned to stop asking the sky to rebuild a life only she could keep living.
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The forest becomes a burial ground for old apologies, dead promises, and the version of herself who kept begging people to stay.
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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
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Becoming means naming who she is now without softening it, and deciding which old versions no longer get to come along.
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A refusal to inherit someone else’s rage, shrink into their story, or teach her children that love should ever sound like fear.
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Some wars leave no bruises—only sleepless nights, self-doubt, and a battlefield built inside the mind.
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Courtrooms count paperwork and allegations; motherhood keeps counting lullabies, scraped knees, and all the care no file can hold.
Between Bruises & Blooms 