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“When Hope Cries”

When “hope” cries… When “dreams” sleep… When “breathing” gasps… That’s when the silence becomes louder than thunder, when the heart carries bricks instead of blood, when faith feels like a rumor whispered in a language I used to know. Hope—she bends at the knees, her voice trembling like a child asking if love is real this time. Her tears don’t fall to the ground— they suspend in the air, reminding us that even the strongest light can flicker. Dreams—once wild stallions running through midnight fields, are now curled in corners, restless, tossing in sleep that feels like chains. They whisper in half-finished sentences, “Don’t forget us… don’t bury us alive beneath calendars and scars.” Breath—oh breath— the most ancient prayer, now struggles through lungs like a beggar at a locked door. It gasps, it clutches at the edges of existence, and in that desperate rhythm, I hear the truth, to be alive is to wrestle between suffocation and song. So when hope cries, I will hold her. When dreams ...
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“Words”

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Words — we once were acquainted. You lived on the tip of my tongue, quick as lightning, faithful as breath. But today— today I struggle. I dig through the crevices of my mind like a miner in a dark cave, searching for that one, two, maybe three syllables that could connect me to the world outside my chest. Once, you flowed like rivers— clear, unbroken, carrying my thoughts from my brain to page, from page to people, from people to love. Now you scatter like birds startled mid-flight. You hide behind shadows, behind fog, behind the cruel silence that mocks me when I open my mouth. My eyes begin to dance  searching for words as  each letter grabs another to create words.  And I wonder— how do you lose a word, who lived inside you? How do you misplace the very bridge that once carried your voice? I stumble over sentences, trip on phrases, reach out only to grasp air. And the silence, it grows heavier— a weight pressing on my ribs, daring me to stop trying. But I won’t. Even ...
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“hiii”

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  i wish you would come for a visit. not a long stay, not a grand entrance, just just your voice breaking this silence that’s strangling me. i search for the answers to  why . why you stay away. why i lied.  why no chigger jokes. why the only echoes i hear are my own cries ricocheting off the walls of my mind. tears keep coming, uninvited but faithful, like they know something i don’t. they drip down my skin, salty proof that longing still causes pain. i wish you would visit. i’d open the door to my heart so wide, it would creak on its hinges— but it wouldn’t slam shut. no. i’d hold it open like our promise, like a prayer i’ve whispered too many times, like hope that refuses to rot. and i’d greet you with a hug so fierce, so desperate, you’d feel every of missed smile pour out of me at once. the words i could never say would spill down my arms into your chest. will you just say hi? just one syllable, a crack in the distance, a bridge strong enough to carry me out of this ...
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In the Kitchen

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The kitchen is a witness. It sees mornings begin with quick bowls of cereal, and evenings end with plates piled high, waiting to be washed clean. The fridge keeps the record— drawings in crayon, photos held by magnets, notes that curl at the edges. Each one tells a piece of the story. The kettle speaks through steam. The pots show their dents, each scratch a memory of meals shared and fights survived. The mixer stands strong, steady through birthdays and holidays, holding the weight of celebration. At night, when the lights go out, the kitchen stays. It keeps every sound, every smell, every mark— a silent witness to the life lived here.
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When Rain = Woman, Fire = Harm

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Rain is woman. She moves in silence, a thousand silver tongues whispering life back into the dust. Fire is harm. It comes loud, cracks open the night, devours until nothing is left but blackened corners. When the flames die down, what’s left is the stench— smoke clinging to walls, to lungs, to memory. What’s left is the smoldering, embers pulsing like cruel reminders that pain doesn’t vanish just because the blaze has burned out. Men with matches call it love, but love does not leave a woman choking on ashes.  Love does not brand her skin with scorch marks. Yet rain— she returns anyway. She seeps into the ruin, turns char to soil, lays herself down on the embers until they lose their last breath of heat. Rain is woman. She carries the scars— but she also carries renewal. Though narcissistic men may set her aflame again and again, they will never outlast her. Because the stench fades, the smoke lifts, and what remains, always— is rain. ...
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Echoes: Patience—Sept 5

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  Autumn whispers patience, not with thunder or urgency, but with the slow and gentle release of leaves. They let go one at a time, as if each one carries a truth that knows the right moment to be revealed. The air turns crisp and I find myself waiting—waiting for the first frost to sketch a glass web across the windows, for the harvest moon to rise steady over bare fields, for the apple’s sweetness to deepen in the cool night air. I notice how the trees teach patience. They do not force their release. They wait until the wind gives permission, until the branches themselves feel ready to loosen their grip. There is no rush, only timing. And in me, that same stillness echoes back. A rhythm whispering: do not hurry what must unfold. The leaf knows when it is time to fall. The seed knows when it is time to root. Patience, I realize, is not silence. It is  trust in the pace of the season, trust in the unseen work happening beneath the soil, trust that tomorrow will carry what t...
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