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. 💚

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.💚

This poem is for the breakup I never got over—Alanis Morissette and Ryan Reynolds. They were chaotic perfection: her raw, resplendent rage paired with his smirking charm. And when they ended, quietly and without lyrical bloodshed, something ruptured in the universe of my teenage heart. Inspired by the writing style of Alanis herself—lush, biting, philosophical, and deeply feeling—this poem is a lament for the love story we never got to see through. And yes, I am still grieving. No, I will not be taking questions at this time.💚

This poem is a love letter to the Arctic—the place I believe is the most beautiful on Earth. It’s a place I’ve longed for with my whole being: its rigid solitude, its endless hush, its impossible majesty. I dream of standing in that vast, frozen silence, where every breath feels sacred, and of witnessing one of the most miraculous creatures ever made—the polar bear. This is not just a destination. It’s a calling. A cathedral of ice I can’t wait to step inside. 🤍

This poem is about the feeling of being too much for the body that holds you. Of having a soul that is vast, radiant, bursting with desire and direction—yet hemmed in by the quiet betrayals of flesh. It’s not about illness, not explicitly. It’s about that deep, unspoken ache: to be all that you are, when your vessel feels too fragile, too narrow, too small. It’s about the beauty of trying anyway. The glory of continuing to glow, even when there isn’t enough room to stretch.💚

This poem is about the quiet devastation of living life half-alive. About moving through the world in a body that keeps going while the spirit stays curled somewhere deep and unreachable. It’s about the numbness that depression carves, the stillness mistaken for survival, and the miracle of beginning to feel again—however slowly, however painfully. It’s not about healing all at once. It’s about the moment you almost want to. And how even that… is something holy.💚

This poem was inspired by Head Rolls Off by Frightened Rabbit—a song that’s always stayed with me. That one line, “While I'm alive, I’ll make tiny changes to Earth,” says everything. It’s about legacy, but not the kind built in headlines or stone. It’s about the small, meaningful ways we show up for the world. The warmth we leave behind. This poem is for that kind of impact—the soft kind. The human kind. The kind that carries on.💚

This poem was inspired by The Woodpile by Frightened Rabbit—a song by my very favourite band, and one that means everything to me and my love. It’s our song—the one that echoes when everything else is quiet. There’s something in its ache, its plea, its soft desperation that has always felt like us. This poem lives in that same space—of reaching out, of hoping someone will come back to your corner, of loving through the loneliness and still believing in the spark.💚

This poem was inspired by a line from I Did Something Bad—my second-favourite Taylor Swift song. There’s something about the way that lyric—“They're burning all the witches even if you aren’t one, so go ahead and light me up”—holds rage, defiance, and power all at once. It reminded me of how often women are punished simply for existing loudly, for taking up space, for not apologizing. This poem is for her—for every woman they tried to silence, shrink, or destroy. She didn’t break. She burned. And she made it beautiful.💚

This poem was inspired by a line from Taylor Swift’s Karma—“I keep my side of the street clean, you wouldn’t know what that means.” It struck something in me. That quiet, fierce pride in doing the work, in choosing integrity even when others don’t. This piece is about that strength—the kind that doesn’t need applause, just a clear conscience. It’s about walking away spotless from the mess someone else made and knowing that’s enough.💚

This poem is about worship—the kind that has nothing to do with churches. It’s about the sacredness of touch, the holiness of being known deeply, physically, completely. Sometimes love feels like devotion. Sometimes desire feels like prayer. And sometimes, the body becomes the only altar you need.💚

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.💚