His name isn’t here. It doesn’t need to be. He could have been anyone—someone’s son, someone’s favorite person, someone who carried more light than most people realize they’re capable of holding. There are people who move through the world as reminders. They don’t lecture or preach. They simply are. Their laughter softens a room, their small acts of patience change its temperature, and before you know it, they’ve quietly rearranged your understanding of what compassion means.

Some poems arrive as fragments, but others arrive as seasons. This one came in three. At the last section, is a blog post separate but...

I have thought of sealing the cave, letting the torches gutter, burying myself under stone and silence. I have thought of hoarding...

I wrote before about wanting to be wanted back. Tonight I write from the other side of that want— the place where the porch light still...

I have carried this feeling my whole life— a wet coat across the chest, a tightness that doesn’t loosen, grief without a funeral. I have...

Some stories don’t end in triumph. Some don’t end in reconciliation. Some just end in silence, and the decision to stop carrying someone...

Not everything ends in a scream. Sometimes it starts in silence. With memories quietly swept away. With a story rewritten so often that the old one disintegrates beneath it. The past erased— And the erasure itself forgotten. Until the lie becomes truth. And then, one day, it shifts. Just slightly. A cold wind under a blue sky. You glance at the clock. It says thirteen. The world insists it’s always said thirteen. Then the scream begins. Not from a mouth. From a system. Online

Just some poetry about Afghanistan/war in general

Graduation, Dissociation Glassy eyes and a plastic smile. The pink lipstick I wore for every occasion. A dress from the junior's...