There are women who carry the wilderness inside them—who bloom wild and wide beneath open skies, who feel most themselves with dirt on their hands and wind in their hair. This poem is for her. For the one who finds herself in the hush of forests and the roar of rivers, who doesn’t just love the wild but is the wild. Who moves through the world with the same wonder, majesty, and untamed grace as the landscapes she loves. The Wild in Her is a celebration of that sacred bond—between woman and earth, spirit and sky, the wilderness outside and the wilderness within.💚

There is something sacred about the wilderness—something that strips away the noise and reminds me who I am. Every time I step into its embrace, I feel both humbled and held. The trees do not rush me. The rivers do not demand I speak. The mountains do not ask me to be anything but present. This poem is a love letter to that majesty. To the way the wild welcomes me back like I never left. To the deep, wordless gratitude I carry for its beauty, its stillness, its breathtaking reminder that I am part of something so much greater.💚

There are days when movement feels like medicine—when the simple act of stretching, swaying, or walking becomes a reminder of all the things our bodies are still capable of. I wrote this poem as a love letter to that freedom. To the joy of moving not to shrink or prove or punish, but simply because we can. Because we’re here. Because our bodies are sacred vessels, and every step, every reach, every dance is a quiet celebration of life. This one is for anyone who’s ever felt the power of moving with abandon and grace.💚

There’s a peculiar kind of ache in being loved well now, when you weren’t loved well then. The Math Never Works is a poem that sits in the quiet contradiction of healing—the way the kindness of those around us can be breathtaking, and yet, somehow, still not enough to erase the cruelty of those who first taught us who we were. It is a reflection on the beauty of being surrounded by people who lift and love you with intention—and the sorrow that lingers when that love doesn’t quite reach the places broken by those who were meant to love you first. This poem is a love letter to the ones who stay, and a mourning song for the ones who didn’t.

There is a particular kind of sorrow that comes from being broken by someone who walks away untouched. The One Who Was Broken is a lament for the aftermath—for the unbearable truth that the person who destroys is rarely the one who suffers. This poem speaks to the injustice of systems that protect the destroyer, not the destroyed. It grieves the way society demands evidence from the wounded while offering comfort and cover to the ones who cause the harm. It is a poem for anyone who has ever been left to carry the weight of someone else’s violence, manipulation, or cruelty. For anyone who’s been forced to rebuild in silence while the world turned to shield the one who tore them down.

There are poems that come softly, and there are poems that arrive as elegies—for the time that was taken, the peace that was fractured, the self that was dimmed by someone else’s darkness. The Days You Have Stolen is not just a poem. It is a mourning. A reckoning. A quiet scream for every hour spent shrinking under the weight of fear, for every breath held too tightly in the name of survival. It is written for the ones who have been watched, followed, manipulated, and made to feel unsafe in their own lives. For those who have lost months, years, and seasons to the shadow of another. This is what it means to grieve what was stolen and to rise, slowly and burning, from the ash.

This isn’t about a break-up. It’s about something harder to name—the grief of a relationship that should have been safe, but wasn’t. One that held so much potential, so much history, and could have been so much more. It’s about the ache of trying. Of giving. Of holding on longer than you should have, only to be met with silence, distortion, or harm. This piece carries the sorrow of knowing someone, loving someone, and realizing that reaching out to them became the greatest regret of your life. It doesn’t name the relationship. It doesn’t need to. If you’ve ever poured yourself into someone who chose not to see you, you’ll understand. The violins are playing—and not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s over.

Sometimes the only thing louder than the pain is the not knowing. The way the questions echo in the quiet: Why did they do this to me? Why are they like this? This piece isn’t about closure. It’s not about forgiveness or healing or tying it up in a neat bow. It’s about giving voice to the ache. About finally letting the questions breathe instead of burying them. Because she deserves to ask. Even if the answers never come, she deserves to stop pretending this didn’t happen. She deserves to say: it hurt—and I still don’t understand why.

This is for the girl they made to believe she was the problem. The one who was blamed, silenced, and made to carry the weight of other people’s damage as if it were her own. The one who questioned herself endlessly, because the people around her never took the time to understand her. She tried. She always tried. And still, they called her too much, too sensitive, too dramatic—anything to avoid looking at themselves. This piece is a reminder. A reclamation. A quiet refusal to keep believing the lie. Because she was never the problem. She was the one surviving it.

Some feelings are so heavy, so consuming, they don’t fit neatly into conversation. They live under the skin, in the silence between words, in the ache of being alive when everything inside is screaming to disappear. This piece is not a cry for attention—it’s a truth. One I’ve been carrying quietly for far too long. It’s an attempt to put words to the weight I live with, to say out loud what shame has convinced me I should keep hidden. If you’ve ever felt like the problem, like the broken one, like you shouldn’t exist—I want you to know, I see you. I am you. And this is what it feels like.

This poem is a love letter to the women who disappeared to keep the peace. The ones who were told they were too much, too loud, too sensitive—so they learned to shrink, to soften, to vanish. But somewhere beneath all that silencing, something sacred remained: a spark, a whisper, a name that had never been forgotten. The Unvanishing of Her is not about becoming someone new. It’s about returning to the self that was buried but never broken. It’s about strength that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. This is what it looks like when a woman stops disappearing and starts taking up her rightful space.

This poem is for the girl who was never allowed to take up space. Who was taught, in a thousand subtle and shattering ways, that her silence was safety, that her stillness was love, that her disappearance made everything easier for everyone but her. It’s for the child whose voice was stolen in the name of peace, whose presence was treated as provocation, whose needs were erased to preserve someone else’s comfort. And it’s for the woman she became—the one who is slowly, bravely, and beautifully un-vanishing. This is not her collapse. This is her return.

This poem is for every woman who has watched a narcissist rewrite the story—again and again—to cast themselves as the injured party while leaving destruction in their wake. It’s about the infuriating absurdity of being vilified for setting boundaries, about the exhaustion of watching someone weaponize tears, and about the deep, steady rage that rises when you finally see through the performance. This isn’t about vengeance—it’s about clarity. This is what happens when you stop clapping for the show.

They cosplay the victim.
She stops playing the fool.

There comes a moment when silence stops being survival and becomes a boundary. This piece is for every woman who was surrounded by narcissists, treated as utility, and taught to vanish in service of their dysfunction. It’s for the girl who grew up invisible and returned to the mountains for the mountains alone—only to find that the people who once tried to unmake her were still trying to write her story. This time, she says no. This time, she revokes their permission. This time, they don't get to name her.

Their discrediting has lost her consent.

Group Project of Limbs and Intention is a poem for anyone whose body is technically functional but deeply unreliable. It’s a lovingly unhinged tribute to coordination that never existed, lungs that lose it over pollen, and feet that think they’re doing something. If you’ve ever walked into a room and immediately lost control of your own arms, this one’s for you.

I Ride the Waves, But I Am Not the Storm is a poem about resilience without chaos—about learning to move through the turmoil around you without letting it redefine who you are. It’s for every moment I’ve stayed grounded while others tried to pull me under, and for the strength it takes to remain calm, composed, and intact. This poem is a quiet rebellion against dysfunction, and a celebration of the power it takes to ride the waves without ever becoming them.

I’m Getting Good at Healing is a celebration of rising, again and again, with joy in your lungs and sunlight on your skin. It’s about choosing love, laughter, and beauty—not in the absence of pain, but in spite of it. This poem is a declaration of everything I’ve built, everything I’ve overcome, and the glittering truth that healing isn’t just possible—it’s powerful. There is no darkness here. Not anymore.

All So You Never Had to Look is a poem about the destruction left behind by someone who’s spent their life dodging accountability. It’s about the pain caused by a person who would rather gaslight, ridicule, or ruin others than admit fault—who builds an identity on blame to avoid ever facing the truth. This poem is a reckoning. Not for revenge, but for clarity. A final refusal to carry the weight of someone else’s denial.

Just Because You Make It a Game (Doesn’t Mean I Have to Play) is a poem about refusing to engage with manipulative narratives designed to provoke, blame, and control. It’s about walking away from someone who thrives on chaos and needs a villain to avoid looking in the mirror. This poem is a declaration of peace over performance, truth over theatrics—and the quiet, powerful decision to step out of the game entirely.

Tomorrow We’ll Be Strangers Again (And I Can’t Wait) is a poem about reclaiming peace after years of toxicity, and the clarity that comes from knowing exactly who no longer belongs in your life. It’s a farewell to the chaos of someone who cannot accept being unwelcome, who insists on inserting themselves where harm has already been done. This poem is a promise—to yourself—that peace is not just possible, it’s permanent once the door is closed for good.