writing
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They’ll always have an opinion. Too loud.Too quiet.Too broken.Too healed.Too honest.Too much. They’ll call art a wastebecause they cannot seethe pieces of my soulpressed between the lines. They’ll ask why it doesn’t rhyme,as though painhas ever followedsomeone else’s rules. They’ll laugh at the wordsthat kept me breathing,dismiss the pagesthat carried mewhen nothing else could. They’ll…
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The page was empty. Not because I had nothing to say,but because my thoughts kept arriving all at once. Then came a slow inhale. Not magic. Not a miracle. Just enough silence between the noise for one sentence to become another, until the poem had written itself before I realized my heart had been speaking…
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October seventeenth,a date forever carvedinto the deepest corners of my heart. A morning that began with hope,with anticipation,with the promise of meeting my daughter. The world was asleepwhen I woke to the rhythm of contractions,each wave reminding me: She is coming. I welcomed the pain,believing every moment would disappearthe second I held her. And then,at…
Between Bruises and Blooms 