Tag: poetry

• The Monster Was My Mother

  The sirens began before the sky could darken—
  a long, blaring warning:
  the monster is coming.

  People scattered like loose papers in the wind,
  hands shaking,
  doors slamming,
  counting down the end of the world.

  But I had been here before.
  This nightmare had memorized me.

  So I followed the routine—
  ran without thinking,
  into a building that felt too familiar,
  searching for a place
  small enough to disappear.

  A cabinet—
  too tight, too obvious.

  A sofa—
  maybe I could become furniture,
  mute and unnoticed—
  no, too stood out, too seen.

  An air vent above—
  maybe if I climbed high enough
  I could become air,
  slip through cracks,
  be nowhere.

  But time pressed its hand against my throat.

  Because I remembered—
  what happens when the monster finds me.

  Bruises blooming
  purple, blue,
  like something trying to grow out of pain.

  Words—
  spoken,
  and wrapped,
  tight around my neck,
  until breath forgets how to return.

  Winter nights—
  bare skin against cold punishment,
  locked outside
  until I learned
  how to disappear
  without leaving.

  I begged.
  I always begged.

  But she wasn’t budging.

  No matter where I hid,
  she would find me—
  she always did.

  So I curled into a corner,
  small as I could make myself,
  waiting—
  not to escape,
  but to be found.

  Waiting for the ritual
  to begin again.

  But then—
  silence.

  Then something stranger—
  laughter.
  Voices rising like light:

  The monster is gone.

  You’re safe.

  I stayed hidden longer,
  because safety had never sounded like this.

  Then slowly—
  I unfolded myself
  from the dark.

  I stepped outside,
  into a world that wasn’t hunting me.

  And there,
  in the quiet after terror,
  I understood—

  The monster I had been hiding from
  all this time

  was my mother.

  March 23, 2026

  poetry, life, reflection, trauma, healing, writing, mental-health

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• Afraid Not of Death, But of Absence

  I woke from a dream
  where I was dying—
  alone.

  Alone,
  as I searched your eyes
  and found only coldness.

  Alone,
  as I called your name
  and silence answered in your place.

  Alone,
  as I reached for your warmth
  and touched nothing but air.

  Alone,
  as our laughter—once alive—
  collapsed into a room full of echoes.

  Alone,
  as I stretched toward your love
  and found a hollow,
  a house without a soul.

  —

  I am not afraid of dying.

  I am afraid
  of living in a world
  where I am unseen by you,
  where something once connected
  comes undone.

  I am afraid
  of boarding a long-distance train
  without your gaze to hold me,
  without your goodbye to anchor me
  to something that was real.

  I am afraid
  you will forget me—
  as if we never happened,
  as if our shared existence
  was only a passing dream
  I imagined alone.

  And most of all,
  I am afraid
  that at the end of the day,
  when all things quiet—

  I will still have to go,
  still have to be,

  without your love.

  March 22, 2026

  Love, mortality, poetry, reflection

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• Borrowed Seasons

  You were Autumn,
  and I was Summer—

  I thought I came to you
  to learn the quiet wisdom of ripening,
  how to soften into my fullest becoming.

  But beneath our different seasons,
  our souls were cut from the same cloth—
  threaded with a knowing
  older than time.

  At first, I resisted—
  the chill in your air,
  the slowing of your light,
  when I only knew how to bloom.

  But something beyond us—
  some unseen gravity—
  gently took hold,

  and drew us closer
  until we could no longer pretend
  we were separate.

  So we surrendered.

  To the lesson.
  To the love.
  To what this life had been quietly
  waiting for us to feel.

  And in that fleeting crossing of seasons,
  we found
  the sweetest tenderness—
  a belonging so soft
  it almost hurt to hold.

  Our hearts knew,
  even as they opened,

  that this was borrowed time—

  and loved anyway.

  March 21, 2026

  life, Love, poetry, reflection

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