There’s a particular kind of haunting that doesn’t scream—it watches. It lingers in the spaces we call safe, just out of reach, patient and quiet. I Never Left is told from the other side of that silence. This is the voice of a ghost not yet at rest, tethered not by vengeance but by memory. What begins as a familiar haunting slowly unspools into something stranger: a tale of a spirit unsettled by the living, unnerved by their presence, their noise, their breath. In this house, it’s not the ghost that needs to be feared—it’s the way the living disturb what should have been left undisturbed. Read it slowly. Let the dread bloom. And whatever you do—don’t turn your back on the mirror. 🖤

Some horror doesn’t arrive with blood or screams. It lingers instead—silent, patient, threaded into the corners of a room you once trusted. The Room That Watches is a quiet descent into that kind of fear: the kind that doesn’t chase you, because it knows you’ll stay. It’s about the unease of things slightly askew, the breath behind the silence, and the growing certainty that something in the house remembers you—even if you don’t remember it. This is a poem for the sleepless, the watched, the ones who leave a room only to wonder if they truly left. Let the fear rise slowly. Let it surround you like fog. And whatever you do, don’t look back at the mirror. Not just yet. 🖤

For anyone who’s ever waited to be seen—for the ones who softened their voice, shrunk their joy, and twisted themselves into someone else's shape just to feel worthy of staying. This poem is for the moment someone doesn’t ask you to earn it. Doesn’t need you to change. Doesn’t make you ache for crumbs of attention. They choose you—not in spite of your softness, your scars, your complexity—but because of it. This is what it means to be wanted without conditions. Chosen without begging. Held, fully and finally. 💚

Some loves don’t just fill you—they become you. They seep into your breath, your pulse, the spaces in your home and the pauses in your sentences. This poem is for the kind of love that remakes you from the inside out, so fully and gently that the idea of living in a world without them feels like forgetting how to be. It’s not about codependency—it’s about connection so deep, so sacred, that parting feels like grief before it even happens. This is for the ones you’d follow anywhere. Even to the edge. Even into the after. 💚

Some people send flowers. Others send texts. But a special kind of someone? They send traffic to your website—daily, sometimes twice. Helllllllllo, Stalker! is a deliciously petty and poetically polished callout to the uninvited observer who thinks their quiet obsession goes unnoticed. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. With razor-sharp rhymes and a strong cadence, this poem tips its hat to the joys of Google Analytics—a tool that reveals not only who’s watching, but just how often. It’s a thank-you note wrapped in sarcasm, sealed with a pixel, and delivered straight to the browser of the person who should’ve just minded their business.💚

There are some people who enter your life like sunlight through a window you didn’t know could open. Who don’t just love you in spite of your wounds—but love you in the places where you thought you’d never feel anything soft again. This poem is for the ones who arrive after the survival story ends—the ones who make healing not just possible, but beautiful. For the ones who remind us that maybe we weren’t just meant to endure. Maybe we were always meant to bloom. 💚

In The Bile Collector, the unseen watcher becomes a visceral force—a spectral presence that invades the sanctum of privacy with the stench of decay and relentless scrutiny. This poem transforms the abstract notion of digital surveillance into a vivid, almost tangible horror: an unwelcome guest whose gaze slithers like mould along hidden corners of the soul, whose very presence is felt as bile rising in a parched throat. Laden with hyperbolic comparisons and rich allegory, the piece invites you to confront that creeping, repulsive intimacy of being observed—a reminder that in the silence between each click and search, someone, or something, is always watching.💚

We’re so often told that love must be chaos to be real—that it needs grand gestures, wild arguments, stormy reunions. But what if love is meant to be something quieter? Something that doesn’t demand, but invites? What the Movies Never Told Us is a poem about the kind of love that feels like slipping into a cool lake on a summer day—refreshing, honest, and whole. It’s about ease. About deepening, step by step, into something that doesn’t crash or consume, but holds you. A reminder that sometimes the most profound love is the one that lets you exhale.💚

Some loves don’t arrive to disrupt the quiet we’ve made for ourselves—they arrive to join it. To add to it. This poem is a reflection of that kind of love: gentle, reverent, unexpected. And Then, You is for anyone who has found peace in their own company, only to discover that the right person doesn’t take that peace away—they become part of it. It’s about the moment solitude shifts into something even more luminous, like the moon rising into a sky that was already beautiful, but is now breathtaking.💚

There’s something exquisitely brave about loving someone through fear—not because the fear is gone, but because the love is greater. This poem is an offering for those moments when hearts hesitate but still choose each other. It’s for the kind of love that doesn’t pretend to be fearless, but holds hands anyway and whispers, let’s stay. The Way We Begin is about facing love not as a guarantee, but as a sacred risk worth taking. A soft, honest declaration that says: I’m here. And I want to feel everything—with you.💚

There are times in life when blooming feels impossible—when the world is too sharp, too loud, or too cold. This poem is a reflection on those seasons, and a gentle reminder that we, like flowers, don’t bloom for everyone or everything. We bloom when we are safe. When we are loved. When the sun touches us in just the right way. Blooming Is Not the Same as Growing is a love letter to resilience, to tenderness, and to the quiet, instinctive pull toward light. It is for anyone who has ever withheld their colour until the world felt worthy of it. 💚

This poem is both a diagnosis and a declaration—a name for the cruelty that masquerades as care, and a voice for the child who was trapped inside its impossible logic. Double Bind Communication is a psychological tactic often used by emotionally immature or narcissistic parents to control their children without appearing cruel. It keeps the child forever wrong—too much, not enough, delusional, forgetful—no matter what they do. This poem is for anyone who was told their truth was a betrayal, their memories a crime, and their healing a threat. It is not just poetry—it is a testimony. And for those who know this pain, may it feel like being finally, beautifully understood. 💚

There comes a moment—quiet at first, then roaring—when the weight of pretending is heavier than the truth. When you finally stop twisting yourself to fit into someone else’s denial, and start telling your story exactly as it happened. This poem is that moment. It is a reckoning for those who dressed up cruelty as care, who punished you for remembering, and then punished you again for healing. It is written for every child who was silenced, blamed, gaslit, and dehumanized—and who now refuses to return to the fire just to prove they can still burn. This is not a plea for understanding. It is a statement of fact. A farewell to fiction. And above all, a declaration of love—for the self that made it out. 💚

There are some wounds that do not bleed but echo. Some homes that were never homes, only battlegrounds disguised as family. When the people who claim to love you twist your reality, silence your voice, and shame your very breath, healing is not just survival—it’s rebellion. This poem is for every soul who was told they were the problem, when all they ever did was try to find the door out of the maze. It’s a reckoning. A remembering. And most of all, it’s a declaration: you are not lost—you were just never meant to belong in a world built on denial. Read this slowly. Let it echo. Let it free you. 💚

Sometimes the truth doesn’t need to shout—it just needs to press play. This poem is a razor-edged ode to every bold-faced lie that thought it could outrun the facts, to every performance that crumbled beneath the weight of its own contradictions. It’s about the courage it takes to stand your ground when justice is on your side, and the twisted spectacle of someone betting everything on a version of events already disproven by their own voice. I Admire Your Bravado is a lyrical reckoning—a reminder that in the end, the truth doesn’t flinch. It rolls tape.

Laughing With My Mouth Full is a celebration of joy in its most visceral, unfiltered form—the kind of joy that doesn't ask permission or wait to be observed. It’s about revelling in the messiness of being alive, about choosing presence over perfection, flavour over formality. This poem is for the women who live vividly, who taste every moment, who dare to take up space and sound and sensation without apology. It’s for the ones who laugh mid-bite, who spill wine while storytelling, who know that elegance isn’t silence—it’s the art of fully inhabiting your life. This is a love letter to embodied joy, and a refusal to ever quiet it down. 💚

This poem is about a moment I’ll never forget—standing outside a courtroom, raw and rattled, after being forced to sit through lies meant to break me. It’s about the man who met me there, not just with love, but with fury on my behalf. My husband has always seen me clearly, even when others tried to distort the view. What He Said To Me After Court is a tribute to that kind of love—the kind that holds you upright when you’re shaking, that speaks truth over you when the world tries to bury you in falsehoods. This poem is what it feels like to be chosen, again and again, by someone who sees all of you and still says, “You are worth it.” 💚

This poem is for my sister—the one I left behind when I ran. I didn’t mean to leave her. I was running from pain, from damage, from a past that threatened to drown me if I didn’t break free. But in saving myself, I also abandoned the people who loved me most. It took me years to return, to find the courage to reach out, to ask if there was still space for me in her life. Her forgiveness was a gift I can never repay—only honour, with love and presence and truth. This poem is my heart laid bare. It’s the apology I’ve carried for too long, and the gratitude that spills over every time I remember what it means to be welcomed home. 💚

This poem is a declaration—for every person who has fought to outgrow the limitations of their upbringing, only to be met with resentment instead of recognition. It’s for those of us who have had to claw our way out of generational dysfunction, who have risen not in spite of where we came from, but because we refused to stay there. They Will Not Hold Me Here is both a condemnation and a liberation. It’s a reminder that we are not defined by the people who couldn’t love us well. That our success, our joy, and our unapologetic voices are not betrayals—they are revolutions. And when we rise, we don’t rise alone. 💚

This poem is an ode to the kind of love that doesn’t shout, but shows up—in flour-dusted countertops, in buttery dough pressed into stars and hearts, in the quiet patience of a mother guiding tiny hands. My mother’s shortbreads weren’t just cookies. They were her way of loving out loud without ever needing to raise her voice. What began as a gift for one became a tradition that wrapped around our family like warmth in winter. Even now, long after I lost her original recipe, I carry the essence of those moments with me—each stolen bite of dough, each Christmas spent baking, a memory etched into my bones. This poem is for her. For the sweetness she stirred into my childhood. And for the little ones I now hold close, so they’ll always know that love is in the doing, in the giving, in the small, sacred acts we pass down. 💚