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Written in Her Own Story

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Die If I Don't- Niall Horan Can she have that love the kind that writes songs out of hunger and sleepless nights that turns rain into slow motion and makes the whole world pause between one breath and the next just before their lips meet. The kind of love that moves mountains without trying that throws sparks against the dark and calls them stars The kind that says forever and means it even when life becomes difficult, sharp-edged, heavy. Where she becomes his oxygen his first thought in the quiet morning his last prayer before sleep the name his heart reaches for without asking permission. Can she have that love the kind that blurs the noise of the world that feels like running barefoot through fields of wildflowers with the sun warming her skin while storm clouds gather somewhere far away. The kind that breaks her open and heals her in the same breath That gently traces the scars hidden beneath her ribs loving every fractured part until she no longer calls herself broken. The kin...
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Who You Are To Me

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Did you hear the gong strike three? It marked the day's end for you and me.. The mallet robbed from my fingers Struck by your pretentious force. The veil lifted when hands caressed four Lust driven alphabets  Ceased stringing to form desire Disregard always steaming at the core. Back to the origin Of gullibility and the thrill of persuasion Battered into disturbing distraction And the false comfort of  satisfaction. Who you are to me When the minutes crawl up to five And reality gushes from torn wounds Washing away short-loved joy forever. When darkness comes for six And lightning streaks across the beating heart Burning through the charred remains  Of your forbidden song. Who you are to me Seven and the limp reminder of your apathy Say the joke's on me, on me, on me The never-choice, lost to the wind of oblivion Of who I am to you.
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Salt, Pretending

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Image credit:  Generated with AI (OpenAI image model) Suddenly it seemed crystal A one-eyed fantasy A door once Perhaps only the memory  Hinges breathing in a language she refused to learn Stood long enough to become Part of the frame Ever so often closing Leaving skin on the wood Dust learning her name better than she ever did Somewhere a bell kept ringing Not for her Never for her She answered anyway... again and again A mistake repeating itself into ritual Thinking revelation would come Instead it came as subtraction Faces erasing themselves mid-smile Streets folding back  Into unwalked thought Remembering  Leaving Or being left The difference dissolved quietly Salt pretending it was never ocean Symbols carved behind her eyes Rearrange when she sleeps Spelling truths Waking up Too human to believe Someone once told her everything returns They forgot to mention Parts that refuse Fragments that drift  Unclaimed even by time Now she carries a map With no origin ...
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A Home, Once

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Image Credit: Samuel Branch on Unsplash This used to be a home. Comings and goings of spirited soles, Laughter jogging up the stairs, Arguing with the cracks in the plaster. Now all that's left is silence, Heavy, like the dust that clings to the corners. This used to be a home. Not just shredded muscles of cement walls, Or brittle bones of iron rods. Not just the rotting corpses of generational furniture, Or the stench from oozing floorboards. Paint peels from the walls like scabs, And ghosts of lullabies linger in the rooms. Spiders record yesteryear in their webs, Replacing blemishes from framed photographs, Framing remains of their own. Overgrown weeds guard the entrance, And cataract-ridden windows barely see Through the haze of fading memories, As if the house, too, forgets Which direction the wind once carried hope. Time gnawed at the foundation. Slow and unfeeling, Consuming names and faces. Once-familiar voices now pulse faintly, Like strains from another life That nev...
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