Slow.
Entangling.
Rot wears the face of patience.
Silence gathered like rust.
Endurance cracked quietly.
Decay entered silently and made itself a home.
Dust fell into every sacred thing.
The ashtray overflowed beside untouched flowers.
The garden party continued.
Birthdays,
rolling in faster every year,
dragging their long shadows behind them.
Something terrible
always circles back.
The innocence fled early,
left me sleepless
in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.
I still hear younger laughter
through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—
sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
bright candles,
warm lights in winter windows.
The world untouched by dread.
Time bruises in unknowing ways.
Memory decays softly.
Now I grow flowers alone,
watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.
No candles to burn.
Only silence waiting in the walls.
Getting older
feels like watching winter
move into the bones.
I remember every word
that cut me open.
I remember every fire
that left more
than it burned.
I remember the void
that kept growing
until there was nothing else.
I remember the storm
that almost took me—
almost.
I remember every hit,
every mark.
every scar—
inside
and out.
My grief taught me discipline.
Not the clean, motivational kind—
the quiet, brutal kind.
that holds you together
when everything you love comes undone.
The discipline of surviving
what should have broken you.
Grief carved the truth in front of me—
the pause before collapse.
Tears taught me
what words never could.
My peace arrived—
honest, not gentle.
Now I honour the scars that taught me—
the ones that closed without permission,
that carried wisdom into my skin
and proved I was worth healing.
I let go of what no longer serves me.
I stand in the truth of my heart
and the marrow of my soul.
Yesterday’s faults
become tomorrow’s sorrows.
In the dark corners of my mind
I string stars like fairy lights.
I take thunder in my chest
and turn it to fuel—
to light the fire within.
On my last breath,
I begged the night for a saviour—
but the darkness stayed quiet.
No one came.
The cold laid the truth bare:
in the chaos, in the ruins,
no one is coming
to pull you from your wreckage.
Your salvation is yours.
You save yourself—
or don’t rise.
Deep with rage
the soul rots between the bones.
Voices fade.
Words disappear.
Sleep comes—
never gently.
Standing alone in the forest,
the ground underneath
swallowing me whole.
I escape morning
After night
has unearthed my bones.
Regrowth is not gentle.
I died at midnight—
A slow bleed,
crying spells,
fractures beneath the surface.
Learning to grow
in the soil of last year’s failures—
they are lessons,
not a death sentence.
I shed the stories that kept me small,
shut the doors that fed the dark.
I make peace with sunlight,
and the quiet pull of moonlit nights.
I embrace the changes—
soft,
loud,
necessary.
I hold the tender moments.
I love—despite the madness.
Revival.
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