This poem is about desire—but not just the spark. It’s about the inferno. The aching, breathless kind of wanting that sets your soul alight. But beneath that heat, there’s something even more powerful: love. The kind that holds you steady as you burn. The kind that turns passion into permanence, and touch into something holy.💚

This poem is for him—for my love. For the way his eyes change just before he touches me, for the way he knows my body like a language we wrote together. It’s about that look, that pull, that beautiful ache that builds between two people who have loved each other long and deeply—and still want each other like it’s the first time, every time.💚

This poem is about longing—the kind that lives in the body before it finds words. It’s desire as ache, attraction as gravity. That magnetic pull you feel when someone walks into the room and you feel it everywhere. Sometimes wanting isn’t about love or even lust. It’s about him. The way he moves. The way you break just watching.💚

This poem is about the terror that lives in the body long after the danger has passed. It’s about hypervigilance—one of the most haunting consequences of Complex PTSD. For some, survival means never relaxing. Never trusting peace. Always watching, always bracing. This is for her. For the ones who map every room for exits, flinch at footsteps, and carry their fear in silence. It isn’t paranoia. It’s memory, dressed as instinct.💚

This poem is about Complex PTSD—the kind of trauma that doesn’t come from a single moment, but from a thousand quiet ones. It’s about the wounds no one saw, the hypervigilance that never quite fades, and the lifelong work of teaching your body that it’s safe now. It’s for anyone who learned to survive by disappearing, and who is now learning—slowly, bravely—how to come back to themselves.💚

Some time ago, I learned there’s a name for the way my mind moves—fast, full of feeling, lit with ideas that don’t sleep. It’s called creative overexcitability, one of the five intensities described in Dabrowski’s theory of positive disintegration. It helped me understand that what I was taught to see as too much was actually a deep, burning capacity for imagination, emotion, and vision. This poem is a love letter to that fire—and a refusal to ever dim it again.💚

This poem was inspired by my all-time favourite song, Rusted Wheel by Silversun Pickups—a song that has lived in my bones for years. There’s something about its slow collapse, its grinding beauty, that feels like truth. This piece lives in that same space: the ache of movement, the exhaustion of never really stopping, and the quiet violence of carrying on when everything inside you wants to seize.💚

This poem was written after revisiting Skinny by Ibi Kaslik, a novel that never stopped echoing inside me. It’s a quiet, devastating exploration of illness, memory, and the invisible ways a person can begin to vanish. I wanted this piece to exist in that same fragile space—where the body becomes a battleground, and silence says more than words ever could.💚

This poem was inspired by Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro—a novel that lingers long after the final page. It’s a meditation on memory, love, and the quiet tragedy of lives already spoken for. I wanted to write something that captures that sense of inevitability, the deep ache of fleeting connection, and the beauty of moments that matter even when the world says they shouldn’t.💚

This poem was written after listening—again—to The Trick is to Keep Breathing by Garbage, a song that has always felt like a quiet unraveling. It’s about that strange, suspended state where everything hurts and nothing moves, and yet… you keep going. You breathe. Not because you believe things will get better—but because breathing is the only thing left to do.💚

Some memories taste like sunshine. Like childhood summers and cold drinks that fizzed with delight. This poem is for those moments—the ones we return to, again and again—not always for what they were, but for what we needed them to be.💚

Some losses carve themselves into you so deeply, there’s no un-feeling them. No moving on. Only carrying. This poem is for the ones we lost too soon—the ones who made beauty out of sorrow, who showed us how to wear our pain like art. And for those of us left behind, still listening. Still hurting. Still holding on.💚

There are so many voices we will never hear. So many masterpieces never made. So many lives shaped by a kind of quiet violence that leaves no visible scar—just a hollow where confidence should have been. This poem is for the children who never stopped being children, because they were never given the safety to grow. It’s for the artists, the thinkers, the world-changers who were raised by people who didn’t deserve to shape them. It’s a lament for the potential we’ve lost—and a fury that so much of the aftermath is left for the child to carry, alone.💚

Some books don’t just tell a story—they leave fingerprints on your heart. We Were Liars is one of those stories. E. Lockhart weaves a tale of privilege, longing, mistakes, and unbearable loss. What struck me most was not just the sorrow of what happened, but the haunting grief of what never would.

This poem is not a retelling, but a response. A tribute to the ache of futures extinguished by one reckless spark. To the ghosts we carry. To the beauty of art that breaks you, and then hands you a pen.

Because the best stories don’t end when you close the book.
They echo.
They inspire.
They linger.💚

Some endings do not come with warnings, and they do not come with mercy. They arrive quietly, without ceremony, and take everything. All Things End is a poem about that kind of ending—the ones that do not transform, do not teach, do not heal. The ones that simply are. This poem does not offer comfort. It does not try to make sense of loss. It only holds space for the reality of it: that some things end forever, and we are left to carry their absence with us, altered in ways language will never fully hold. This is not hope. This is aftermath. And still—somehow—we continue.💚

Some lives come quietly. Some fall into place with ease. And then there are the lives we chase—wild, hard-earned, and wholly ours. Not Is So Easy is a poem about that choice. About how easy it is to surrender to stillness, to not try, to let dreams remain untouched. But also about how something far more sacred waits beyond the exhaustion, beyond the doubt, beyond the ache of persistence. This poem is for the ones who run—not because it’s easy, but because something in them refuses to stop. Because they want the kind of life that can only be reached by chasing it down.💚

At first glance, the title might sound bitter. Like regret, or something lost. But You Can Keep the Beginning is anything but. It’s a quiet, reverent celebration of what love becomes—not in its first light, but in its long-burning glow. This poem is a tribute to the kind of connection that’s been lived in, weathered, and strengthened by time. To the intimacy that doesn’t shimmer on the surface, but runs deep, steady, and undeniable. It’s a reminder that while beginnings may be beautiful, they have nothing on the kind of love that’s been earned.💚

There’s a kind of love that isn’t safe. That doesn’t whisper or wait politely to be invited in. It arrives like a storm, holy and hungry, and reshapes everything in its path. The Things I Could Do to You is a poem about that kind of love—the wild, feral kind that bares its teeth and calls it devotion. It’s equal parts worship and warning. A reminder that sometimes the most beautiful thing you can do is surrender… and the most dangerous thing you can do is be seen.💚