Wave
My sorrow is not a verdict,
just a wave I have to bear.
It rises, falls, and breaks apart,
but still, I learn to care.
With every breath, my beating heart
is choosing one more day.
I do not need to feel like hope
to prove I want to stay.
I'd rather be in outer space đž
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tannertan36

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@prettylittledrafts
Wave
My sorrow is not a verdict,
just a wave I have to bear.
It rises, falls, and breaks apart,
but still, I learn to care.
With every breath, my beating heart
is choosing one more day.
I do not need to feel like hope
to prove I want to stay.
âI hope you fall in love with someone who never lets you fall asleep thinking youâre unwanted.â
â Unknown
dormant
still it lives
something buried deep
beneath the leaf fall of seasons
stirs
a root
remembering water
the old sorrow
unfurls its pale bloom
threading itself
through the dark soil of the body
until its bitter flower
opens in the throat
and every breath
carries its pollen deeper
the years fold closed
and all the grief
I thought the earth had taken
rises singing
The River
One day glass,
one day floodwater.
The river between us
swallows every word meant for you.
I kneel at its edge,
watching the current carry away
the compass from my chest,
the key to your voice,
every answer I thought I had.
The reeds bow and rise,
bow and rise,
as if practicing goodbye.
Above us,
the dusk gathers blue bruises
and paints them into the sky.
Still, if winter asks for one more leaf,
I would give it mine.
If the night asks for one more star,
I would loosen one from my ribs.
And if morning carries you
to some far shore beyond my seeing,
I will still thank the river
for knowing where to take you.
An Old Belief
I am tired of surviving
my own thoughts.
They keep building rooms
inside my head,
and every room contains
a smaller room.
Somewhere at the center,
I find myself again,
curled around an old belief:
that I am a burden people carry
until they can set me down.
So I spend my days
taking up less space.
Guessing.
Apologizing.
Trying.
And every night,
the same fear returns,
whispering that
no matter how hard I try,
I am one mistake away
from giving everyone
a reason to leave.
Sweet Dreams
You memorize the constellations
scattered across my shoulders;
name each one,
they belong to you.
A whispered thought,
barely louder than breath,
and suddenly
the whole sky tilts.
You cook,
I linger in the kitchen doorway,
pretending not to stare
at the gold flecks in your eyes,
gathering light.
A favorite show plays,
your head rests in my lap,
my hands wander through your hair,
and the evening suspends,
unwilling to end.
Outside, the stars keep turning.
Inside, I drift among them.
Empty
If love came back now,
it would find the house abandoned.
It would knock softly. It would call my name.
It would stand in the garden long after dark,
listening to the leaves drag over stone.
But grief lives there now,
having changed the locks while I slept.
Every floorboard answers to its weight.
Sometimes I think one honest confession from you
could still unbar the windows.
Instead, dust drifts through the late afternoon,
soft as snowfall.
The mirrors forget their purpose,
and I grow less certain they were ever meant for light.
Splinters
Loss lingers longest in the blue hour wreckage,
when the house goes still
and every small sound seems sacred with meaning.
The mind turns slowly there, water
circling a darkened well, asking again
whether remorse can ripen into repair,
whether ruined things remember
the shape they held before the breaking.
Some nights, hope spills through rain-streaked glass,
silvering the edges of grief.
Some nights, the ache itself feels endless,
a thorn pressed deep beneath velvet ribbon.
Always, the heart keeps vigil in the dark,
wanting the wound to be worthy of mending,
wanting love to return not merely weeping,
but willing to kneel among the splinters
and gather them gently, one by one.
One Closed Window
Scarcity is not the sorrow.
Selection is.
Outside, whole gardens climb toward summer.
Windows glow honey-warm at dusk.
Devotion moves toward me
without needing to be begged.
Open hands.
Easy laughter drifting close at midnight.
Youâre quite charming.
Beautiful.
So much wanting in the world,
and none of it rare.
Yet none of it means enough.
The heart stays fixed
on the one closed window,
the one cold room,
where love turns its face away
as if beauty were not already burning there.
teach me how
will I wake up one day
and no longer want you?
you folded our afternoons
like paper cranes
I keep a small fleet
in the drawer of my ribs,
each one waits
with fragile wings, how
did you do it?
the questionâs a stone
that wonât sink,
you taught the tide
to forget the prints it leaves, how
I watch the shoreline of myself
smooth where you walked,
I learn that some waves
will not return, how
did you erase me
and move on?
teach me how.
you made leaving look
like a lantern set down low
I sit with the ash
of our promises in my hands,
trying to learn
the lightness of letting go, how
I wrote this almost a year ago and I still donât know how.
Desperate
I rehearse restraint
hold your name behind my teeth
let minutes wilt untouched beside your words
pretend I am the kind of woman
who does not wait at the window
counting headlights like prayer candles
but beneath all my practiced silence, I
want to want you ruinously
moon-drenched and longing
to crawl inside your open ribcage like ivy after rain
let the whole starving cathedral of me
ring its bells without shame
never made
to quiet them
One After Another
The bench was damp with coming rain.
I tried to read Sylvia Plath,
though the morning kept slipping
from my hands.
A spider wandered over the words
one after another.
Always gentle with living things, I
lifted it away with my bookmark,
a small slip of Gustav Klimt gold
held out like a bridge
back into the world.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder
dragged its hem across the sky,
and all the while
another disappointment made its place in me
so quietly
I almost called it nothing.
That is the terrible thing,
the endless procession
of lesser sorrows
arriving soft-footed as spiders,
each one so slight
it would sound foolish spoken aloud,
until at last the heart is buried beneath them,
one after another.
Even Then
Air tore through me clean as a blade.
My mind, already fevered,
opened every locked room at once.
Panic has a talent for making eternity
out of a few ruined seconds.
I thought you would come after me.
Even then,
I thought you would come after me.
The water,
black blue, bridal, merciless,
gathering me in with both hands.
I struck it hard enough to come apart.
Hard enough to stop calling this fear
and call it reality.
Below the surface, acceptance was not peace.
It was only the body giving up its argument.
Only the lungs learning
what sorrow weighs.
Still, with the light thinning over me,
with the deep taking hold at my ankles,
I thought you would come after me.
Even then,
I thought you would come after me.
The Same Wound
Raised by something loud,
sharp, and leaving,
abandoned at different distances.
He learned that love is something you lose,
so he keeps it quiet,
at the edges of the room.
She learned that love is something that hurts,
so she goes looking for it there,
soft hands reaching for sharp things.
He pulls away
because heâs afraid of being left.
She reaches
because she already has been.
And somewhere in between,
his silence cuts clean through her,
her closeness is too quick, too much
for him to survive,
circling the same wound
from opposite sides.
Isnât he the same,
pushing away the people who love him?
Isnât she the same,
following the familiar fracture,
chasing the pain?
I can let myself be sad without questioning my worth.
Rejection Exposure Therapy
I keep returning to you
as if your absence were a shoreline,
letting the cold water take my ankles
again and again
until I no longer gasp.
I tell myself this is how I grow,
learning how to stand in it,
letting the pain wash through me
like pale morning light.
Some nights
I miss the simple mercy
of warmth that stays,
and wonder
why becoming stronger
feels so much like becoming alone.
deep cleaning
a note, worn at the folds
your name still warm in my hands
a photograph catching light
remembering how to glow
for a moment, something in me
leans toward you
I leave it where it is
behind the couch, the air goes stale
dust lifting
dry on my tongue
short, curled hairs caught
where nothing should stay
and just like that, the room
comes back to me