survival
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Softness was mistaken for weakness until roots learned how to break stone.
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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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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
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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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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
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Sick or not, motherhood still wakes with bottles, dishes, dogs, medicine, and the quiet strength of doing the next thing.
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A summer trip in Vancouver turns frightening when an almost-two-year-old’s warmth becomes the first sign that something is terribly wrong.
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Three weeks, three apologies, three promises—and the growing realization that sorry means less every time nothing changes.
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After men who confused control, desire, and love, one familiar person stands apart in the softness of ordinary things he chooses to share.
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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.
