Millie says hi!

hug me 'til it's awkward.

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Crescent Dents

Hospital beds and nightgowns,

Cocktails and death vows,

The psychedelic whispers,

A little fingertip grazed.

And you looked into my eyes.

Our silence was etched with emotions,

Too many to speak, so we let them scream silently.

As we sat in that dilapidated room,

A foot apart, concentrating on the cracked walls,

Letting our tears trace the same wet pattern down our cheeks.

The moon melted into the milky night,

Hazy with our emotions.

Our hands squeezed.

I don't know which one of us it was,

But those crescent dents were the perfect paradox.

So I turned and murmured into the dawn,

“Are we okay?”

-HazelCahlill

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and I'll pray

there's a spot in hell

where the fire burns gently

for the people that couldn't save themselves

~sherin

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Even the void is deafening.

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To define is to limit.

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The intimacy of void

The light fractures the surface, a fleeting promise. My burning lungs ache for that sweet, elusive breath. I can almost taste it....the gossamer wisp of air, a tantalizing reprieve from the omnipresent weight that's held me suspended.

But he released his grip. Again.

I watch, helpless, as I'm dragged deeper into the abyss. Each blink becomes a battle, my eyelids leaden with the weight of fading hope. The sharp pain dulls to a hollow ache, an emptiness that echoes through my very being.

The darkness closes in, a smothering embrace. I sink, deeper and deeper, into the cold void of abandoned dreams and shattered possibilities. The light above grows dim, a fading memory of what could have been.

In this watery silence, I dissolve, piece by piece, into the vast nothingness that awaits. Perhaps, this is what people meant when they romanticised hitting the rock bottom. Falling doesn't scare you when there's nothing to fall into.

-HazelCahill

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Ember Skies

Bleeding silently into the river, sandstone yet again disintegrated.

However, neither the crimson stain nor the boulder screamed.

The timberdoodle spreads its wings, bathing in the dying warmth,

Peenting in a shameless waltz, while she cries, clutching the remnants of her shattered dreams.

The flames crackle, painting the sky with warmth,

Wryly she sits, dying not from the cold without but from the cold within.

- Hazel Cahill

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Echos of Us

In this void where memories linger,

I sit, frozen in time's cruel embrace,

A statue carved from shattered dreams and whispers,

Waiting, always waiting, for your familiar face.

Each tick of the clock, a hammer to my heart,

As I strain to hear your footsteps in the hall.

But silence mocks me, thick and suffocating,

And your absence echoes off every wall.

With you beside me,

Challenges, though persistent, felt conquerable then.

Your presence, a bulwark against the tempest's rage,

Now I drift alone, grasping at wisps of what could have been.

We exist as islands now, oceans apart,

Yet somehow tethered by invisible strings of pain.

I want to cry, to scream, to shatter this stillness,

But the tears won't fall, they need your touch like rain.

In quiet moments, I swear I feel your presence,

A phantom warmth where once you wiped my tears.

But reality crashes, cold and unforgiving,

And I'm left alone with all my fears.

In the depths of night, do you also lie awake, counting heartbeats when silence reigns,

Do you feel the weight of all we've lost?

I hope amidst the shadows of our memories,

You find a flicker of light, whatever the cost.

Though we walk separate paths now,

Know that somewhere, I'm still cheering you on.

You have the strength to weather this tempest,

To find your way back to the light of dawn.

And if ever the weight becomes too heavy,

If ever you feel you might break or bend,

Remember the love that once bound us together,

And let it be the strength on which you depend.

I sit here still, frozen yet burning,

A paradox of longing and bittersweet hope.

Waiting, always waiting, but knowing deep down,

That we'll both find the courage to cope.

~HazelCahill

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The Tell-Tale Heart

I was reading "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe yesterday, and I cannot shake its haunting rhythm off, as it hums beneath my skin. It echoes in my veins, a relentless reminder of the self I've buried alive. Poe's words, carved open my soul, exposing the raw, pulsating truth within. We are all murderers of our past, architects of elaborate tombs built from smiles and small talk, where we inter the ghosts of who we once were.

But these specters simply refuse to rest. In the quietest moments, when the world sleeps, I feel the planks of my carefully constructed floor shift and groan. The muffled cries of that long-ago child, that fragile, wide-eyed 13 year old, seep through the cracks, a plaintive symphony of pain and confusion.

Who among us hasn't felt the sudden, sickening lurch as laughter dies on our lips, replaced by the phantom taste of tears long-shed? We dance on the graves of our former selves, our steps grow wilder, our voices louder, desperate to drown out the accusatory whispers that rise from below.

"Look at me!" it screams silently to the world, praying no one will see the trembling hands, the haunted eyes, the scars we've painted over with bravado and false bravery. For if they knew, if they truly saw, would they recoil from the monsters we've become in our quest to survive?

No, we are not mad. We are the walking wounded, forever fleeing from the gaze of our younger selves, those innocent judges who would condemn us for the sacrifices we made in their name. We built our sanctuaries of sanity brick by brick, burying the evidence of our metamorphosis deep within these walls of flesh and bone.

And so we endure, heartbeats pounding in our ears, a constant reminder of the life we snuffed out to become who we are today. Poe understood this exquisite agony, this beautiful, terrible paradox of existing as both murderer and mourner. We are not crazy; we are simply… surviving.

~HazelCahill

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Against the grain of the wind

In silver light, we dare to gleam,

Where shadows dance, and fools esteem,

A fine line threads, 'twixt brave and bold,

And recklessness, that tales are told.

We steel our hearts, and sharpen wit,

Lest valor's virtue turns to fatal hit,

For midnight's courage can be dawn's despair,

And moonlit valor, a mourner's prayer.

So let us gather, in our secret sheds,

And praise the poets, who wisely tread,

The thin line 'twixt honor and demise,

And know when to hold back, and when to rise.

For bravery's beauty lies in its restraint,

Lest noble hearts, to foolishness are swayed,

So let us await, with cautious delight,

The brothers' coming, in the silent night.

~HazelCahill