there is a girl
with an entire universe
collapsing behind her ribs
and nobody knows
because she laughs loudly
because she shows up
because she learned that people
only ask if you’re okay
when you look like you aren’t
but she has mastered
the art of disappearing
while standing right in front of you
she has stitched herself together
with invisible thread
held her own hand through nights
that felt endless
and survived battles
she never had the words to explain
they call her strong
they don’t know
strength was never the dream
the dream was to be held
without having to fall apart first
the dream was to be loved
before she became a lesson
in survival
but still
look at her
still breathing
still becoming
still carrying a heart
that the world tried
so hard to turn to stone
My favorite chapter
if love had a language
your eyes would be
my favorite chapter
the one I return to
when the world forgets
how to be gentle
they speak
without the burden of words
holding entire seasons
inside a single glance
a quiet alphabet of warmth
of storms survived
of dawns still waiting to happen
I have learned the shape of hope
in the way your gaze lingers
how silence becomes a sanctuary
when it is shared between us
every blink
turns another page
every smile hidden there
is a sentence I never tire of reading
and if one day
the rest of the story fades
if time scatters its pages
to the wind
I will always remember
the language your eyes
taught my heart
that love is not always spoken
but endlessly understood
Memorized
I know each line of your face
like verses in a poem
I’ve memorized by heart
the gentle curve where laughter lives
the faint crease of past storms
weathered in silence
the soft trace time has dared
to leave near your eyes
not as a thief but as an artist
each line is a map
of joy
of ache
of sleepless wonder
I’ve traced them with my eyes
a thousand times
and still they catch me off guard
like a favorite song played
slow and low in the dark
to know your face
is to know a story
without needing words
a story that keeps unfolding
even when you’re still
Borrowed light
the silhouette of my body
is a quiet shoreline at dusk
all curve and hush
outlined in borrowed light
it does not need to be seen
it simply stands
a dark bloom against the evening
soft thunder held in stillness
my shoulders are small horizons
my hips a slow question
the night leans in to answer
in shadow
I am less detail
more feeling
a whisper shaped like a woman
a flame without flame
a story told only in outline
and somehow
in the absence of light
I become entirely myself
Let me down easy
let me down easy
not with silence
settling like dust
on everything we built
not with a door
closing so softly
I mistake it
for the wind
if you have to leave
leave like evening
slow enough
for the light to understand
tell me the truth
before it hardens
into stories
i’ll spend years
trying to untangle
I can survive
the clean edge
of honesty
it’s the dull blade
of maybe
the weight of almost
the unanswered room
that keeps drawing blood
so if my name
has grown too heavy
set it down
look at me
long enough
to remember
I was once
your favorite place
to arrive
then go
I won’t ask
the horizon
to turn around
Inkbound
*Picture is my own*
we began as margins
empty spaces waiting for a hand
to spill ink into our quiet
you did not read me
you memorized the shape
of my syntax
running a thumb
along the rough cut of my edges
until the dust of old chapters cleared
revealing the spine
we are not written in a rush
we are the slow turn of heavy paper
the smell of old bindings
and the afternoon sun
trapped between sheets of parchment
I have found myself folded down
at the corner of your thoughts
a creased memory
you keep returning to in the dark
here in the white space
between the paragraphs
where the author fell silent
we speak not in words
but in the weight of punctuation
the soft exhale of a semicolon
the breathless pause
before the next line begins
let the world close its heavy cover
let the shelves grow dark around us
we are pressed together
in the quiet typography
two separate stories
bound into the very same breath
Remembering
the path remembers us
every stone still holds
the quiet weight
of your hand finding mine
simply to say
I’m here
and I love you
beneath these old trees
where even time hangs gently
from the branches
your fingers folded into mine
like they had always known
the shape of my loneliness
since then
every empty bench looks as though
it has been saving a place
for the warmth we left behind
I could walk this road
a thousand times alone
yet my palm would keep searching
for the memory of your touch
because some hands
never really let go
they become
the way you carry love
long after the path disappears
If I return
just let me go
not because I stopped loving
but because love
should never have to beg
for a place to breathe
release my name
from the grip of your silence
untie the knots
we kept calling forever
if I return
let it be as rain
remembered
never held against the sky
and if I don’t
let the empty space
be proof
that something real
once stood there
Happy 250th Birthday America
Happy Independence Day.
Today we celebrate the freedoms that unite us and remember those whose courage made them possible. As the fireworks light the sky, may we also remember the quieter freedoms we often overlook: the freedom to heal, to hope, to love, and to begin again.
Wishing you a safe and meaningful Fourth of July. I hope today reminds you that you are loved, valued, appreciated, and that every new day is another chance to live freely and wholeheartedly.
Borrowed Faces (Audio)
some mornings
I fasten a face to my own
before the mirror has finished
telling the truth
one for kindness
that swallows its own hunger
one for certainty
stitched together
from borrowed words
one for laughter
light enough
to keep questions
from settling on my shoulders
I wear them
because the world
is full of bright rooms
where vulnerability echoes louder
than confidence ever does
by noon
I have forgotten
which smile belongs to survival
and which one
was born with me
the masks are patient things
they learn the shape of our breath
they memorize our silences
they become so fluent
in our names
that even our reflections
hesitate
still there are moments
rain on an empty street
a hand that does not ask me
to be anything
the long forgiving conversation
between dusk and the first star
in those moments
the straps loosen
the borrowed faces
slide quietly to the floor
without accusation
underneath
is not perfection
only skin
scarred by every season
it refused to stop feeling
only eyes
still searching for wonder
after years of pretending
they had already found it
perhaps that is all
a human life has ever asked
not to live without masks
for sometimes they are shelter
sometimes armor
sometimes the bridge
across impossible days
but to remember
they are not our bones
and when night arrives
to set them beside the bed
like shoes that carried us home
so that sleep
may recognize our true face
and morning
if it is gentle
may find us
with nothing left to hide
except the light
we have mistaken
for weakness
The Creative Chic 