dear diary;

Diary, you hold the unshed tears

and every word vomit that escapes me,

a frantic prayer for disclosure.

There is no solution, I know,

but to speak what you feel into being,

what a wondrous, terrifying relief.

We thrive on this release, I think,

yet reclusion offers its own solace—

a quiet space to untangle sorrow,

to hold it close, to let it live.

Yesterday, I felt the floodwaters rise,

the sting of tears,

and shut the gates tight.

Later, a strange anxiety washed over me,

a query into my own existence.

It was then I knew:

I had to feel my own feelings.

As the eldest, I learned to be stone,

the glue, the strong one.

I listened to every woe

while mine remained unspoken.

When the world bled, I was a quiet witness,

a problem-solver,

a map of escape.

Perhaps this is my burden, my lore—

the nurturer in need of nurturing,

the child who outran her own childhood.

Still, I know I will be okay.

I have lived in a place

where love was just a word,

and hope, a relic from the trenches.

Where the flowers bloom

Some days, she is fierce and can move mountains. She is unstoppable, climbing the unknown. With gentleness, descending slowly with confidence and pace. 

Yet some days, she is a storm bracing for waves that will push against her. Sailing a treacherous force that will pull her under, apprehensive to fight against those waves. 

Gentleness... is hope and hope allows her to stay still, and her body will flow to the tides. Surrender my body and mind-this soul to the movements you cannot control. 

Eventually, she would see the rays of warmth that is the sun and a land peeked with luminous floral patches with lush green fields

Picking up the pieces

The hate you give, it makes me hate you. But I can't hate you; I can only resent you. Until I no longer want to be a part of you. And when that happens—and it has—now I just wish you healing.

I'll be left here to pick up the pieces of me. Here I am again, questioning if I can be loved, as I put myself back together again, piece by piece. May the cracks be filled with vivid color, so maybe one day it will attract the one meant for me.

And as I color my emptiness, may I also learn from this hate you give. You cannot give love to hate. Hate can only heal itself or fester. Like wearing a mask and taking it off, revealing its true colors. But the colors are dull and unrefined. A lover stays to commit to the task of their art: to nurture.

Even a loving heart, when scorned, still wishes you well. Yet time reveals itself, there is nothing left here.

It wasn't hate in the end, what I felt. It was a desire to feel safe so we could both be whole. But here are the pieces of me. May the next hands hold me well. I will be whole once again.

You were never broken

 ⋆˙⟡ You can hold onto people all you want, but you cannot change them to love you the way you need them to.

Beg them to see your point of view, or give things time when clearly they are taking up yours.

You cannot paint over cracks, when they are hitting the floor with force creating them.

There is no growth, just war. They claim battle, on your soul, your body. 

And, we fight for this? And, we call ourselves broken for this?

You do not need permission from this type of validation; they already destroyed yours. 

You are not broken.