There are some poems that aren’t written to be understood—they’re written to make sense of what can’t be said aloud. The Cartography of Unchosen Things is one of those. It drifts through memory and melancholy, tracing the shape of a childhood spent on the edges of belonging. It’s about the weight of being here when you never asked to be, the fragments of love that almost saved you, and the small, stubborn tenderness that survives anyway. It’s a map drawn in sorrow and held together by what still remains.💚

This poem came from the exhaustion that follows long battles—especially the kind that leave you uncertain who you’re fighting anymore. When you’ve lived in survival mode for too long, your nervous system forgets what safety feels like, and everything begins to sound like danger, even love. When Everyone Looks Like the Enemy is about that disorientation—the way constant defence can harden into habit, how fear can make us lash out at the very people trying to help us, and how healing begins the moment we finally put the weapon down.💚

We talk about love as if it’s meant to complete us, but the truest kind of love doesn’t erase the self — it expands it. Your Multitudes and My Multitude Make Us Infinite is a celebration of that expansion: a poem about two complex, ever-evolving souls who see and hold each other in their entirety. It’s about the kind of connection that doesn’t simplify but deepens, where every contradiction is welcomed and every difference adds another star to the shared sky. This is a love poem for the endlessly becoming — for those who believe that real intimacy isn’t about sameness, but about the infinite universe that unfolds between two people who dare to stay curious about each other forever.💚

This poem was born from the realisation that family isn’t defined by blood, but by the choices we make within it. Healing is not hereditary—it’s intentional. I’ve learned that some people inherit pain and choose to pass it on, while others take the same pain and turn it into something new: compassion, accountability, peace. It’s Not Blood is about that choice—the courage to become the one who ends the cycle, and the quiet, radical love it takes to do so.💚

There is a quiet devastation in being the one everyone turns to—especially when no one pauses to ask what it costs. Everything Hurts Where They Wrenched Her Apart is a poem for the women who are always expected to show up. The ones who are needed in every room but never nurtured. The ones who are unraveling silently under the weight of unrelenting demands, still expected to smile through their own undoing. This isn’t about one person—it’s about all of it. All of them. All the ways we’re pulled apart to meet the needs of everyone else, while our own are left unattended. If you’ve ever felt like your very self is being divided into pieces just to keep others whole—this is for you.💚

This poem is a refusal dressed as a question—a fierce, grieving reckoning with the moral script that taught us to absorb harm until we vanished. How Many Cheeks Did You Expect Me to Turn? holds the ache of repeated compromise and then, with clear, unflinching voice, chooses reclamation: the boundary struck, the leaving practised, the slow assembling of a life that will not be vandalised by someone else’s cruelty. Read it as both indictment and anthem for anyone learning that mercy is a gift, not a debt, and that survival sometimes means stopping the turning and starting to live.💚

Some beginnings arrive quietly, like a garden blooming in secret. Others break through like fire across the horizon—inescapable, fierce, unstoppable. This poem is about that kind of rising: a light that refuses to be dimmed, a reminder that even the longest night must eventually surrender to morning.💚

Every once in a while, life offers a beginning so tender it feels like dawn breaking over the whole earth. This poem is about that kind of arrival—the kind that reshapes everything with its quiet power, its beauty, and its defiance. It is about creation, freedom, and the sacred work of tending to what blooms. 💚

This poem is an account of becoming: not the gilded ceremony we were promised, but the slow abrasion of hope against the teeth of the world. The Grinding reads adulthood as machine and mortar—an insistently patient mechanism that raspens bright edges into useful, manageable shapes. It is about the quiet tax of compromises, the accumulation of small defeats that shorten a spine and mute a voice, and the way injustice settles into habit until it is mistaken for normal. Yet within its wear and erosion there is also a brittle resilience: the stubborn learning to walk beneath weight, to carry another’s breaking, to muster a tenderness that the mill cannot quite pulverize. Read it as elegy and indictment, as mourning for what was lost and as the witness to what we are forced to become.💚

This poem is an imagining, a reckoning given voice: a man standing before the grave of his father, addressing not a legacy of love or honour, but the absence of both. It is about confronting the futility of a life squandered, the ache of what should have been, and the bitter truth that sometimes the most tangible thing a father leaves behind is nothing more than a name on a stone. It is elegy as indictment, grief braided with fury, and the unflinching acknowledgment that some inheritances are only ruin.💚

There’s a particular grief that comes from watching someone you once cared for slip behind their own armour. It’s not about politics, not really — it’s about what happens when curiosity gives way to cruelty, when someone you remember as kind becomes a stranger who confuses arrogance for insight. This poem is about that moment — the quiet breaking point where conversation turns to contempt, and all that’s left is the hollow echo of what could’ve been empathy.💚

There comes a point when explanation becomes cross-examination — when a woman’s intellect is not met, but managed. This poem is for every woman who’s been told she’s too loud, too certain, too articulate for her own good. It treats sexism like a courtroom proceeding: the accusations, the discrediting, the endless attempts to impeach her credibility. But it also delivers the verdict. Because beneath the mock civility and coded insults lies a simple truth — that her refusal to diminish isn’t defiance at all; it’s evidence of evolution, and the men threatened by it are simply unqualified to preside over her anymore.💚

God and Oatmeal lingers on the story of a man who vanished into Alaska’s wilderness in 2018, never to be seen again. It imagines his search for the divine, not in thunder or revelation, but in the small mercy of survival—the steam of oatmeal rising like prayer in the frozen air. This poem is both elegy and meditation, a haunting reflection on how the wilderness can keep its secrets, and how sometimes the closest we come to God is in the quiet provision that sustains us just long enough to disappear into mystery.💚

The Shameless Have No Shame explores the futility of confronting those who thrive on deceit. It speaks to the hollowness of people who cannot be embarrassed, who simply shed one falsehood for another without pause. In its lines, we are reminded that exposure does not undo them, because their power lies not in truth but in audacity. The poem insists that the true act of resistance is not in proving them wrong, but in refusing to let their noise define your silence.💚

This is an Erasure is a meditation on the deliberate act of removing what no longer serves—tearing out the past by its deepest roots, even when it has grown into the bone. It is not simply about loss, but about reclamation: the fierce decision to eradicate what once defined you, and in doing so, to clear space for light, breath, and thriving. This poem inhabits both the violence of erasure and the grace that follows, offering a vision of renewal born not from what remains, but from what has finally been stripped away.💚

There is a particular terror in cruelty disguised as care—the kind that wears tenderness like a mask while quietly orchestrating ruin. Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another is a poem that peers into that horror: the calculated breaking of a body under the guise of devotion, the soft smile that hides the sharpest blade. It is less about illness itself than about the sinister ways love can be counterfeited, turned into ritual, and used as a weapon.💚

Jealousy is a thief—of time, of joy, of life itself. While some spend their years watching and measuring themselves against others, the wiser choice is to build, to tend, to grow. This poem is both an elegy for the wasted years envy leaves behind and a hope that one day those blinded by it might turn inward, tending their own gardens and building their own homes, brick by brick.💚

Envy is not inspiration—it is paralysis. To covet another’s life so deeply that you neglect your own is to chain yourself to stillness, to become a watcher rather than a doer. This poem is about the futility of obsession, the emptiness of imitation, and the way jealousy corrodes until nothing remains but a complete failure to launch.💚