This poem is called If God Is A Father, and it’s the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It’s about the grief of losing my faith—not through rebellion or doubt, but through the example of my own father. I was taught that God is a father, and so I watched mine. And what I saw was cruelty, absence, punishment without accountability, and a love so conditional it could barely be called love at all. This poem is a reckoning. With the mythology I was handed. With the harm that was justified in His name. With the silence that still echoes. It’s not just a rejection of the God I was taught to worship—it’s a refusal to let that kind of fatherhood define what I believe in ever again.💚

This next poem is called The Failure of the Father God. It’s a deliberate and direct reckoning with the concept of God as a father—a metaphor I was handed as a child, and one that never brought me comfort. In fact, it mirrored the harm I was already trying to survive. This poem isn’t subtle. It’s not meant to be. It’s for every woman who was told to kneel in gratitude while being broken, for every daughter who was asked to call silence “love,” and for anyone who has been asked to make peace with a God who looks far too much like the man who hurt them. The Failure of the Father God is not just a personal poem—it’s a refusal.💚

Some pain never leaves. It wakes with you, walks with you, weaves itself into the shape of your life until it’s impossible to remember what it felt like to live without it. This poem is a reckoning with that kind of pain—a body turned battlefield, a lifelong ache mistaken for strength. It speaks to the sorrow of feeling old before your time, of wondering if your illness is somehow an echo of your own self-loathing. It’s as much as I’m willing to say about it. Because in the end, worse things have happened to better people—and I won’t mourn myself for something so small in the grandness of all I still have to be grateful for.💚

Sometimes, people don’t just tell you who they are—they show you, again and again, in ways that leave marks you try to ignore. This poem is about what it means to keep going back. To keep hoping. To keep rewriting cruelty as complexity, because the truth feels too painful to hold. It’s an indictment—not just of the person who kept causing harm, but of the part of ourselves that kept making room for it. This is what it sounds like to finally believe what you were shown all along.💚

Some endings don’t come with fireworks or final fights—they arrive quietly, like a bow drawn across the strings. This poem is a farewell to something that has lingered too long, to a connection stretched thin by hurt, by taking, by silence. It’s about the painful clarity that comes when you finally see someone for who they are—and the quiet strength it takes to walk away anyway. It’s not rage. It’s not revenge. It’s the mournful music of letting go.💚

This poem is written in the playful rhythm of Dr. Seuss—but there’s nothing playful about its message. It’s about the danger of being a woman in public. About how a smile, a glance, even the most mundane interaction, can be twisted into invitation. It’s a commentary on fear, on survival, and on how we contort ourselves just to stay safe. The sing-song cadence is deliberate—a jarring contrast meant to highlight just how absurd, exhausting, and terrifying it is to have to strategize your existence in a world that sees your body as public domain. Because sometimes, the only way to show how dark something is… is to wrap it in rhyme.💚

There are moments that feel all-consuming—so loud, so sharp, so heavy, they try to convince us that they are all we’ll ever be. But pain is not permanence. Trauma is not identity. And what we endure does not get to decide who we become. This poem is a declaration of defiance, a reminder that we are not the worst things that have happened to us, nor the hardest things we’re facing. We are more than any single moment. We are becoming, always. And this—whatever this is—is not our whole story.💚

Some people move through the world wearing masks they believe are impenetrable—convinced that charm can erase cruelty, that manipulation dressed as concern won’t leave a mark. But the truth has a way of surfacing, even when it’s been buried beneath smiles and carefully crafted narratives. This poem is for the reckoning that always comes. For the quiet clarity that follows confusion. For the moment when the mask slips, and the world finally sees what’s been there all along.💚

We are so often taught that anger is something to suppress, something unbecoming of a woman—that to be palatable, we must be pleasant, forgiving, quiet. But anger is not the enemy. Anger is clarity. Anger is the voice that speaks when everything else has been silenced. It is the moment we stop enduring and start transforming. This poem is a reclamation of female rage—not the kind that destroys for the sake of destruction, but the kind that frees, that rebuilds, that says enough. Let this be a reminder that your anger is not shameful. It is sacred. And when they fear it, when they try to diminish it, know that they are witnessing the most dangerous thing of all: a woman no longer afraid to burn.💚

Some love is so vast, so holy, it refuses to be casual. It insists on remembering. This poem is a quiet vow—to the people who make my life full, to the ones who hold my heart without ever asking, and most of all, to Sophie and Lena. It’s about the aching privilege of witnessing them, loving them, and wanting to keep every detail, every second, every breath safely tucked inside me. Because nothing lasts forever—but memory, if we love hard enough, just might.💚

This poem is a reckoning with release. The Sky Will Do What the Sky Does is about the futility of trying to contain someone else’s chaos—about the heartbreak of watching a storm rise in someone you once begged to be calm. It’s about learning that no matter how gentle, reasonable, or forgiving you are, you cannot rewrite the weather. You cannot turn thunder into quiet. This piece is for anyone who has exhausted themselves trying to bring peace to someone committed to destruction. It’s not about surrender—it’s about sovereignty. About stepping away from the storm, not because it has stopped, but because you finally understand: it was never yours to still.💚

Being a grown-up is basically just guessing. Guessing how much things cost. Guessing what the government wants from you this time. Guessing whether that noise your car is making is serious serious or just expensive serious. And somehow we’re all just expected to keep going, keep smiling, and keep paying for things we never even asked for. This poem is my love letter to the absolute disaster that is adulthood—and the barely functioning weirdos who are out here doing their best anyway. I see you. And I also forgot what day it is.

This poem is not a cleansing. It is not healing. It is the brutal act of naming what was done, and who did it. The Devil I Knew is an elegy for a father who never truly existed, and a reckoning with the man who took his place. It is about the kind of harm that doesn’t just leave bruises—it leaves echoes. This poem does not flinch. It speaks of evil not as myth or metaphor, but as something embodied, chosen, wielded. And yet, it also carries the unbearable ache of disappointment—the longing for a softness that never came, for a redemption that never arrived. It is not about rising above. It is about living with the wreckage—and still choosing to breathe. To walk. To love. Even when the first man who was supposed to show you how did nothing but destroy.💚

This poem is an unflinching meditation on the paradox of pain—that every wound carved by existence is, in its own brutal way, a gift. The Benediction of Suffering explores the idea that to suffer is not to be punished, but to be awakened—to be marked by the sheer intensity of being alive. It’s about understanding that God’s “punishments” may not be condemnations at all, but invitations to feel more deeply, to break more beautifully, to live more fully. Suffering, in this telling, is not a flaw in the fabric of divinity—it is the fabric. And to feel it is to know, beyond doubt, that you were here.💚

There’s a point where the truth becomes too loud to ignore. When the patterns speak louder than the lies. When the loneliness someone claims to be victim of is nothing more than the consequence of who they’ve chosen to be. This poem is about that reckoning. About the horror someone brings into the world and then blames everyone else for fleeing. It’s not envy. It’s not betrayal. It’s not a smear campaign. It’s you. And the vile legacy you’ve written with your own hands. Nobody likes you because of you.💚

This poem is a declaration—a vow to the fleeting nature of time and the holy urgency of now. While I Still Have Secondsis a love letter to the present moment, written with the knowledge that tomorrow is never guaranteed. It is for the ones who refuse to sleepwalk through their lives, who choose to taste every second like ripe fruit, who find poetry in the ordinary and meaning in the mundane. It’s a reminder that presence is a radical act—that to live fully, deeply, and unapologetically is the fiercest defiance of impermanence we can offer. If life is a breath, then let us exhale beauty.💚

There’s a particular kind of cruelty in trying to force love from someone who no longer understands what’s being asked of them. In accusing others of manipulation while orchestrating your own. In rewriting history for the sake of power, not healing. This poem is about that kind of cruelty. About the ones who waited for the mind to break so they could finally feel wanted—not realising that love, when tricked or stolen, isn’t love at all. It’s just control dressed in a hollow costume. And that… is the saddest thing.💚

This poem is a reclamation—for every woman who’s ever been told she was too angry, too emotional, too messy to be believed. There Is No Wrong Way to Tell the Truth is a rallying cry for those who’ve been gaslit into silence, who’ve been told their truth must be delivered with grace or not at all. It’s a reminder that truth doesn’t owe anyone polish. It can be jagged. It can be furious. It can arrive late, bruised, stammering—and still be holy. However it comes out, your truth is worthy. And telling it is a revolution in itself. 💚

This is a poem about losing faith—not in the abstract, but in the most personal way imaginable. It is about what happens when the figure meant to protect and guide you, the one who teaches you what love and power are supposed to feel like, becomes the very source of your undoing. When religion tells us that God is a father, what does that mean for the daughters of men who abandon, wound, or destroy? The Apostasy of Daughters is not just a reckoning with belief—it is a lament, a funeral hymn for the idea of divinity as paternal. For some, disbelief is not rebellion. It is survival.🖤

There are few things more satisfying than watching narcissists lose control—especially ones who have coasted through life on manipulation, entitlement, and the delusion that they're always the smartest, most powerful person in the room. This poem is about that moment. When the mask slips. When the “no” lands. When their fantasy crumbles and the world finally mirrors back what they’ve spent a lifetime refusing to see. I only wish I’d been recording—so I could replay the downfall on repeat.💚