Sometimes, beauty isn’t born in sunlight. Sometimes, it rises from the muck—from the rot, from the decay, from the kind of origin story that no one wants to tell aloud. What the Swamp Made is a poem about that kind of becoming. It’s a meditation on nature’s strange and startling ability to create something breathtaking from even the most repulsive conditions—and a metaphor for the lives that begin in darkness but bloom anyway. This poem isn’t about shame. It’s about emergence. It's about claiming the miracle of becoming something beautiful, even when the world around you was built to drown you.💚

There was a time I didn’t know if anyone would read my words—let alone feel them. Launching my writing career was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. I was vulnerable, exposed, and filled with doubt. But somehow, impossibly, beautifully, you showed up. You read. You listened. You stayed. You Have to Use My Name to Get Any Attention at All is a poem about that shift—about going from being afraid to speak to being someone whose name means something. It’s about the overwhelming joy of being accepted by an audience who sees me, believes in me, and calls themselves my fans. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes. But it’s happening. And this poem is for everyone who helped make it so.💚

There are some figures who refuse to remain buried—who linger not in presence but in aftermath, in shadows that move with you no matter how many miles you walk. Luca is a poem born of that haunting: the weight of someone lodged too deep in memory, their voice echoing through marrow and dream alike. It unfolds like a meeting in a rain-slick alley beneath the muted glow of a failing streetlight, where silence is more suffocating than sound, and recognition arrives not as relief but as inevitability.💚

As writers, especially women who dare to speak boldly, we often find ourselves under a microscope—scrutinized not just for what we say, but for how we say it, how we exist, how we dare to grow. Every Misstep You Take is a poem for that moment. For every step forward taken under the weight of expectation. For every word written while knowing someone is waiting for you to fail. It’s about the exhaustion of being watched—but more than that, it’s about the audacity to keep going anyway. To be seen, and still be yourself. To turn even your stumbles into something sacred. If you’ve ever felt like the world is holding its breath, just waiting for you to fall—this is for you. And this time, the fall is a flight.💚

Some breakdowns don’t come with sirens. They come with silence. With slow fades. With whispered pleas hidden behind polite nods and half-smiles. It’s Pretty Obvious I Am Crumbling is a poem for the people who are still functioning, still showing up, still doing all the things—but barely. It’s for the ones who are unraveling quietly, hoping someone might notice before they fully disappear. This isn’t about drama—it’s about depletion. And it’s a reminder that just because someone seems okay doesn’t mean they are. Sometimes, the most obvious signs of suffering are the ones we’ve learned how to mask the best.💚

We often mistake inheritance for numbers on a page, for coins tucked away, for the measure of what can be counted. But the truest legacy is not stored in vaults—it is planted, nurtured, and tended across years. This poem is about the kind of generational wealth that endures: the love, the care, the growth, and the devotion that can be carried forward long after we are gone.💚

Some people mistake your existence as an attack, as if the simple act of breathing in your own skin is defiance aimed at them. They build entire battles out of shadows, convinced that if they can erase you, they will finally find peace. But survival is not submission. This poem is for every soul who has been targeted by another’s delusion—and chosen, instead, to remain unshaken, unvanquished, and undeniably here.💚

There are people who will spend their lives trying to rewrite you, twisting truth until it frays, scattering words like weapons in the hope that you will mistake their version of you for your own. This poem is for every woman who has stood in the wreckage of those lies and chosen, instead, to rise as the author of her own story.💚

There are days when I feel like I’m fading from my own life, as though my world has been rewritten without me at its centre. The weight of being silenced, erased, or pushed aside leaves me drifting—half here, half gone. This poem is my attempt to give those feelings shape, to put words to the ache of becoming a ghost in the story that should have been mine.💚

There is something sacred about surviving what was meant to break you. Something radiant about choosing healing over hate—again and again—no matter how loud the world tries to drown you out. This poem is a declaration. A reckoning. A love letter to the version of me that refused to disappear. My Healing Is Louder Than Their Hate is not about them—it’s about the fire I carry now. The peace I earned. And the voice I’ve built from ash and defiance. If you’ve ever risen from something meant to ruin you, this is for you too. Let them whisper. Let us roar.💚

This poem is a scripture born of survival. Now I Believe in Hell: The Gospel According to What You Did is not a metaphor, not a catharsis—it is testimony. It is the sacred record of harm that was not incidental but intentional, not overlooked but orchestrated. In these lines, the concept of Hell becomes no longer spiritual, but structural—something built by a man who chose cruelty again and again, with eyes wide open. This is not about what was allowed. It is about what was done. And though it bears the shape of a father, it carries the voice of a witness refusing to let history lie. This is gospel, not of faith, but of fire. And it burns with truth.💚

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.💚

There’s something sacred about the kind of peace that comes after chaos—the way your lungs remember how to fill completely once the weight is gone. This poem is about that. It’s about living fully, freely, and with joy in the aftermath of survival. Some people will know exactly what I mean. And some won’t. That’s the beauty of it.💚

There are times in life when survival depends not on strength, but on softness. On the gentle act of turning your gaze just slightly away from the thing that might undo you. This poem was born from that space—from the ache of pretending, of pressing forward with a painted smile and carefully arranged silences. It’s about the quiet performance of being okay, the beauty and burden of rose-coloured glasses, and the way we sometimes choose illusion not out of cowardice, but out of necessity. Because some truths are too sharp to carry daily. And sometimes, the only way to keep moving is not to look too closely.💚

This poem is a love letter meant for the impossible moment—the one we never want to imagine but all silently fear. If I Am Gone By Morning is what I would want the love of my life to carry in their heart if I didn’t get another day, another breath, another chance to say it out loud. It’s a hymn of devotion, a whisper across time, a promise that love—when it is real, when it is chosen with your whole soul—never truly ends. It lingers in the laughter, in the quiet, in the very air we leave behind. This is everything I would want them to know, if tomorrow came without me in it.💚

This poem is about the kind of absence that lingers—when someone you once made space for stops showing up, and you’re left to rearrange the table around the silence. It’s about hope that turns into ritual, and the quiet sorrow of learning to stop preparing for someone who no longer arrives. Sometimes we let go not with anger, but with exhaustion. And even then, the ache has a way of finding its seat.💚

Some losses are too quiet for funerals. Some griefs don’t get eulogies. There are people we mourn not with flowers or tears, but with the weight we carry in silence—the ones we still reach for in dreams, or hear in the pauses between sentences. This poem is for them. For the ones who were never properly held, never properly remembered. It’s a love letter written in the language of absence. From one ghost to another.💚

Some people don’t raise children—they replicate themselves. They breed cruelty, not through neglect, but through intention. They reward manipulation, feed delusion, and call it strength. And when the monster they created grows louder, sharper, more unrestrained than they ever dared to be, they act shocked. As if it wasn’t them who loaded the machine. As if it wasn’t them who pressed copy. This poem is about what happens when evil doesn’t just repeat—it escalates.💚