Unexpected romance

    I knew better when I saw him knocking, the wheels in his head returning, and I could see the mice behind his eyes. I let him in, and he was nothing but trouble. He sauntered towards me with a look of melting ice slowly sinking into the floor around my feet and into the soles of my shoes. It's the middle of December, so it's no wonder my feet are cold. He went to plant a chaste kiss on my lips, and in a very unladylike fashion, I regarded him with a moan. To put it frankly, we were getting into heavy petting while at my brother's pet store, and then, in a not very romantic slam against what we thought was the wall, we let loose the mice. He smiled deviously and started to help me catch them, saying, "Happy 300-day anniversary." I glared at him. "Very funny."

Tropical island paradise

    It's really hot! What I wouldn't give to have air conditioning again. I hate coconuts! I used to love them; they were my trip to a tropical paradise while casually walking around the mall. But now, all there is to eat are coconuts and fish. I miss a lot of stuff that used to not matter: tap water at 11:30 at night, my cat snuggled in bed next to me, my wedding ring. I look at the sand in between my toes and pretend it's him. He's there, making a home inside me. I start to cry because it's not fair. I start to cry because it's not enough. I pick up the sand with my hands and kiss it, if only that were enough. How my body yearns to feel his touch again, even if only for a moment. I sit in the sand and close my eyes while my hand plunges deep into it. I remember his hands caressing my cheek, and while looking into his eyes, he kisses my lips, leaving my body languid and wanting more.

Copper

    I smelled copper, like the blood I tasted; it lingered in my throat and nose. It was hot—the blood that came from me could've been stacked in piles, like pennies. In some small way, I guess, I was worth something. It's funny how easily he went to sleep, in the hollows of my very bones. My own temperament has been changed by it, but it wasn't warm; it was hot. Blood boiled, almost an unfair anger and irritation with the sun itself. He could've texted me, I thought to myself. He could've valued me enough to say goodbye, but he didn't, and that is why I'm here.

    I felt the weight of silence wrap around me like a heavy blanket, suffocating yet oddly comforting. It was as if the world outside had paused, holding its breath in anticipation of something unspeakable. I sat there, surrounded by shadows, and thought of all the words left unspoken, the apologies that would never reach my lips. They danced in my mind like fireflies, flickering in and out of existence, taunting me with their brightness against the dull ache in my chest.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long fingers of twilight across the ground. I watched the sky bleed colors—fiery oranges and deep purples—wondering how something so beautiful could exist alongside the darkness that clung to me. It felt like a cruel joke, a reminder that even in the depths of despair, life continued to move forward. The cicadas began their nightly symphony, their song a haunting echo of the chaos within me, and I found myself longing for the stillness that never seemed to come.

As I reached for my phone, the coolness of the screen felt foreign against my clammy palms. I hesitated, wondering if I should reach out or simply let the silence consume me. I thought of his voice, how it used to wrap around me like a warm embrace, and how now it was just another ghost lingering in the corners of my mind. I wanted to scream, to shatter the fragile calm that surrounded me, but all that escaped my lips was a choked whisper. In that moment, I understood the weight of absence, the way it seeped into the cracks of my soul, filling them with a heaviness I couldn't shake.

Dear, Rosemary

    There are two types of people in this world: The Fallen and The Floating. An unhealthy dose of normality is injected into your bloodstream as a baby; the blood that pumps through your heart matches your father's collar—too good to know any better. At the age of six, you knew no worse pain than that of a scraped knee or a dead goldfish. In a world full of pain and misfortune, your father died at the age of eighty-four, and at ninety, your mother followed. A quiet departure: your father from a blood clot at work, your mother of old age while sleeping. When you fall asleep at night, you miss them, but not enough to pay them with waking hours; it was their time—no need to mourn the inevitable.

    When you hear stories of the girl in your high school class, you shudder, as the thorns and thistles she called a childhood leave scratches in your memory and scars on your heart. She is a happy woman, and although you try, you'll never understand why. That's why you married her—to give the Fallen what they never had. Yet she has treasures that you could never possess. In a crimson box underneath the stairs sits saturated memories. She can recall specific dates by smelling her favorite candle. Every year, your wife's friends gawk at the Christmas gift exchange as you watch her unwrap yet another clean linen candle. You and her friends will never understand why she prefers the scent of clean linen over any other fragrance.

    You and your wife make a disgusting amount of money, and yet she still clips coupons. Even though she is thirty years old, she still makes collages out of old magazines. She loves sixties music but knows absolutely nothing about it. She's watched every single Harry Potter movie a hundred times, and yet she can't fall asleep at night unless they're playing. She could buy anything in the world for herself but would rather make all of her own things. To this day, she has only ever purchased new items from the store to give to local organizations. She won't eat meatloaf—in fact, she hates it—but she makes the best meatloaf you've ever had every year on the same day. You will never understand why, in the middle of June, she buys a plane ticket to Texas and never goes. Sometimes she sits on the edge of her bed with a torn-up baby photo in her hand and just cries. You don't ask her why she does these things because if she knew, she would probably stop doing them.

    When she cries, you don't ask why because you two fell in love at an old theater, watching gory horror films over a shared love of seltzer water. You proposed to her a year later in that same theater, celebrating your newfound love. She gives you beautiful poetry every Valentine’s Day and sings to you for every birthday; like some sort of rare bird, she is a lovely one. You love her more than life itself, and even though you wonder, you'll never wander. When she cries, you don't ask why; you simply hold her in your arms and say, "I love you!"

    But in the corners of your mind, shadows linger, whispering secrets of the past. You remember the days when laughter was a foreign sound, when the walls of your childhood home echoed with silence instead of joy. Each holiday passed with a veil of muted colors, and even the brightest decorations seemed to dim under the weight of memories that lingered like smoke in the air. You learned to navigate the world with a stoic face, hiding the broken pieces that lay beneath the surface, knowing that to be the Fallen was to carry an invisible burden that few could see.

    You look at her as she dances through the mundane, a light in the chaos of everyday life. Her laughter rings like wind chimes, delicate yet unyielding, and you often wonder how she learned to float above the debris of her childhood. You catch glimpses of her joy in small moments—a sunbeam spilling through the window or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—and for a heartbeat, the scars on your heart fade, replaced by a warmth that blooms in her presence. It is a strange contrast, watching the Floating glide effortlessly while you remain anchored to the depths of your own sorrow. You find solace in her happiness, even if it makes your own shadows feel heavier.

    Yet, in those quiet moments when night falls and the world slows, you sometimes catch her gaze wandering beyond the horizon, lost in thoughts you cannot reach. You wish you could dive into her memories, understand the ache that hides behind her vibrant smile, but you know better than to pry. You let her have her secrets, knowing that the thorns of your past have made you cautious and fragile. So, you become the silent sentinel, guarding her heart while your own remains a battleground. When she sits at the edge of the bed, you offer your hand, a lifeline in the tumult, and remind her that love, in all its messy glory, is the greatest treasure of all.

This is an original short story, please do not steal. Thank you for enjoying my blog. If you have any pointers or anything you would like to know about the post please feel free to comment below.

Oak sonnet

You are to me a fallen oak tree,

whose limbs are turned and bent.

A soul who reached so high to be free

but the wind was harsh and down you were sent.

Those stars were your guiding beams,

softly stitched doll whose gift was a song,

shaken so hard you fell apart at the seams,

broken. Singing has never felt so wrong.

You can't fathom why the caged bird sings,

as those bars came down they made one persistent note,

voice aching while you remember the joy it brings,

as your eyes watch your feathers float.

No more music all fallen leaves,

a bird who barley knows how to breathe. 

This is an original poem please do not steal!

An unreliable lie

Pieces of glass sleep upon my bed

'you made your bed, you lie in it'

I walk down a hall to our shelter.

With a dog's nose I smell the air.

Sickly sweet, it slows me.

With a cat's eyes I look there.

Painfully real, it shows me.

With a slow child's feet I take a step.

Suddenly aware, it takes me.

With a mute's tongue I plead my case.

Harshly put, it shakes me.

We have been thrown before

we are but dust on winter coats in summer.

Thrown from one worthless treasure to another.

How quickly we have fallen.

Who is to blame for our ship's sinking?

A siren sings to our loved ones.

They have cursed us with ourselves.

A permanent mirror rests in front of us. 

Our reflection has captured us.

So unfairly painted is the story of our lives

where every truth is far more intricate 

than the lies we had hoped would save us.

We are fallen and you claim there is no shame in it.

Lies!

We are full of shame.

Turning on one another.

A hungry beast whose meal is blame.

For this dead animal you try to will back to life.

'Your only as strong as your will'

What will you have me do?

For a vacant heart,

A rented soul.

A place to hide our truths in boxes,

A pretty garden and under each tulip,

We strategically buried those stories.

Your hurtful parents are in a box,

behind the family memories we couldn't afford,

inside the room that none is allowed in. 

Our dinning room laughs at us

for every night they're left empty 

with a lost identity they turn manic.

'If only you could save us'

from what are we "saved"

Do you even remember who the villains are anymore?

I am not a threat,

but I am terrified of myself.

I am afraid of the truths I'll find,

in boxes at the end of the hall.

I am not as skilled as you.

My dreams and nightmares draped on my dresser for the world to see.

I'm not smart enough to hide them well.

Their stories so intertwined they're tangled.

Knots and loose ends lay unscathed.

A mountain whose summit is unknown.

We are a beast who mastered in lies,

in hiding inconvenient truths,

in carrying light in the dark. 

We are not blameless,

not shameless.

Who do I hold accountable for my lies?

My unfair truths?

My unfortunate circumstances?

Tell me who to blame!



This is my original work please do not steal!

Showbuisness

When was it that, what I was given defined me?

I've been given a lot so, it's so hard to remember

what I was and what I am now.

I just can't remember!

It's agonizing how turbulent these waters seem,

how easily agitated they are.

It seems as though you could fracture a whole ocean

with just one touch.

The wind picks it up and hurls it against itself, over and over.

The rain becomes just as unforgiving when it's cold,

let's face it, when is it ever warm.

I remember when it was, I can't recall who I was

or how old.

I can only remember how the sun felt.

How it seemed to shelter me from the shade, it painted me

golden, I was worth something to the sun.

The music the sun sang was beautiful so, soft and sweet

it was a sun drenched lullaby.

While the breeze blew it was warm and it smelled sweetly.

Now it's dark and cold, it smells of salt and the sun seems to have swallowed itself.

It has left me here.

How I hate the sun, I hope I never see it again.

What farms and Santa claus have in common

My pets don't die
They love and breathe until a farmer takes them away
On a farm full of mice and hens
Fat and happy

My parents told me their just sleeping
Dreaming happy dreams full of whimsy
Safe and sound

They were never run over
He skillfully crawled out of harms way
Up the tire inside the engine a man found him later
Asleep and purring

No, my cats are lucky you see because
Mom and dad told me

While I cried mom said he's fine don't me sad
I wasn't I was mad.

I'm not strong enough for you to be honest
You don't trust me to do what's right

I have night mares and I have eyes
When it gets dark you don't need to turn on a light
Flowers don't blossom in the shade
Constantly sheltering me

When it rained it poured and there was no one to save me
It seems I was over due for a visit with reality

My pets don't die, they talk in my slumber
Their lucky and frolicking on farms
Where it's sunny everyday and it never storms.

How they are lucky their not me basking in the sun of immortality.