Vicky

Just an online journal

[snowangelsoul]

@dangerouslycleverflower

😂😂😂

[vickyrlanda]

The Mathematics of Longing

I know the equation before it is written,

the sum of want divided by the weight of what will never be.

I know the fantasy collapses under its own logic,

a house of cards constructed on borrowed time.

I am the margin, the afterthought,

the variable in your idle calculations…

a pleasant distraction, a momentary indulgence,

never the solution, only the space between.

You would never wager permanence on me.

I am not the theorem that shifts your world,

not the proof that demands its own revelation.

I am the unsolved problem you revisit when the hour is late,

the curiosity you entertain but never resolve.

I know the nature of this game.

I know that if I were different…

if my bones were sharper, my angles more refined,

if I were less of the quiet and more of the storm,

if I existed only to reflect your brilliance…

perhaps then I would be worth the risk.

But love, I am not the exception to your rules,

only the rule you bend when it suits you.

And still, I remain.

Because love, as I have known it,

has always been a wound first, a warmth second.

It is not real if it does not leave scars.

It is not love if it does not break me open.

So I will let you fracture me again,

if only to see your eyes linger a moment longer,

if only to feel the ghost of your touch,

if only to exist in your mind before I am erased.

I will do this not because I do not know better,

but because knowing has never stopped the wanting.

[vickyrlanda]

Inheritance of Dust

I wish I had let her breathe,

let her walk untethered, unhurried—

not dragged by the collar of expectation,

not shackled to a compass that never pointed true.

She was given beliefs like hand-me-downs,

worn thin by strangers’ hands,

stitched with rules she never wrote,

burdened with maps that led nowhere but back.

I wish she had lived off-leash,

free from the grip of safety,

from the weight of God’s gaze,

from the quiet, suffocating approval of the righteous.

The ocean is beautiful—

until it pulls you under,

until it demands your surrender,

until it baptizes you in its hunger and calls it love.

And now—

while others inhale their beginnings,

I exhale my ending.

I am undone by never having been.

Not ruined, but erased.

Yet I do not resist.

I do not rise.

I let the sickness in the air root in my marrow,

let their voices settle in my skull,

let the weight of their hands press me into the dust.

No one can understand.

No one can save.

My doom is not approaching—it has arrived.

It has always been here.

So let them grow a fruit tree from my remains.

Let it stand where I could not.

Let it bear what I could not.

Let them take and take and take

until even its hollowed bones belong to them.

[jareckiworld]

Alexis Mata — New Moon (oil on canvas, 2024)

[jareckiworld]

Alexis Mata — A Day in the Cactus Valley (oil on canvas 2024)

[jasmim-manga]

[vickyrlanda]

A Stillness Between Us

Morning breathes softly, barely stirring the weight of night. Curtains hold back the day, but the sun—persistent and gentle—slips a thin finger of light through the crack, drawing a line across the sheets, across us, as if marking where the world ends and where we begin.

The ceiling fan hums, a quiet metronome keeping time we do not yet follow. Outside, birds sing their small songs—faint, distant, as if they know this moment does not belong to them. Inside, silence hums louder, a language spoken in the spaces between skin and breath.

Beneath the covers, the world is warm, a cocoon spun of shared heat and slowed heartbeats. I shift closer, not out of need, but out of something softer—a magnetic pull toward the center where you are. Your arm drapes over me, effortless, instinctive, like the universe remembering where stars should rest.

No words rise, because none are needed. Desire lives not in what is spoken but in what is known—in the way your breath grazes my neck, in the weight of your arm that says, I am here.

Time slackens, losing its grip in the hush, as if morning itself has paused to watch us—to witness the quiet intimacy of two souls choosing presence over pretense.

Out there, life waits, unfolding its demands, but here—in the cradle of this stillness—nothing else matters. Not yet. Not while the warmth lingers, not while our bodies speak in the slow language of simply being.

[vickyrlanda]

When Your Dream Comes Back to You

It never knocks, only slips through the cracks,

a whisper against the windowpane,

a familiar weightless pull that lifts me,

higher, softer—home.

It arrives unannounced but always expected,

coaxing my hands to unfold,

to touch what was never meant to be held,

to taste the morning before the night is done.

It tells me things I ache to believe,

in a voice that shapes itself into safety,

humming with the cadence of always,

woven from a thread that has unraveled before.

It moves like a promise,

slow, deliberate, full of intent,

brushing against the edges of forever,

before slipping back into never.

I never see it leave—

just feel the absence where it was,

a hollow echo in the shape of something real,

lingering long after it’s gone.

And though I know, though I always know,

still, I wait at the edge of sleep,

for the hush, the pull, the return—

for the dream to come back again.

[vickyrlanda]

It’s wrong—I know it is. But I want to run.

When my life feels dull, when frustration builds, when the weight of responsibility presses too hard against my chest, I think of him. It’s a whisper, then a scream. An urge that turns my bones restless. I dream of his hands, his voice, the way he looks at me like I am something fragile, something to be held—not owned.

He’s my dream, and he’s right within arm’s reach. But I have vowed myself to another, and he is bound to someone who drowns her sorrows in a bottle. We are both caged birds, singing songs of longing, wings brushing through the bars but never quite slipping free.

Maybe in another life, we’d have had our chance.

But in this one, I am always the other woman.

He painted the perfect picture for us—St. Pete, by the beach. An apartment with an art room, where he’d watch me paint, where he’d tell me I was made for more than this life of half-love and self-denial. We’d spend our days wrapped in sun and salt air, our nights tangled in music and moonlight. We’d be young, reckless, but just grounded enough to build a home.

One day, when the time was right, we’d expect our first child. He’d propose, not because it was expected, but because he had always known—I was it for him. We’d have a small destination wedding, just the two of us against the world. He’d join the military, and we’d never have to wonder if we were enough for each other. We’d push each other to be the best versions of ourselves. It would all make sense.

It would be our story, unburdened by guilt and secrecy.

And yet, it is not my story to live.

I could reach for it—all I have to do is choose myself. But in doing so, I would shatter everything I have built.

So instead, I stay. And I live with the ghosts of what could have been.

I live with him in the quiet moments, in the dreams I don’t speak of, in the spaces between the life I have and the life I ache for.

the cruelest part of all of this?

I will love him forever, and it will never be enough to make him mine.

[vickyrlanda]

I won’t take up too much space, I promise.

In the airport’s cacophony of rolling suitcases and urgent steps,

I claimed a tiny corner, a refuge of measured air,

a fraction of existence where I could shrink

into the background without disturbing the pulse of transit.

Here, in the brief respite between departures and arrivals,

I learned the art of dissolving, of smoothing edges

until I became a whisper among roaring engines,

a soft outline in a world that demands fullness.

I was raised to be minimal, to be less than enough,

to hide the unspoken storm within,

to bury the colors of my soul in muted tones on canvas.

Each day, the mirror reflects a self-worn shadow,

one who constantly retreats,

sacrificing dreams at the altar of not inconveniencing, of not hurting,

hiding the fierce brilliance of my desires

behind the flimsy promise of silence.

I lie to salvage moments,

to appease the echoes of a world that devours too much.

and in that quiet, unyielding surrender,

I remain small, unnoticed, a footnote in the crowded narrative of life.

There is no grand finale here, no bursting bloom of redemption.

only the stark, relentless truth of self-effacement

etched into the corners of an airport terminal,

where I once sought comfort in being just small enough.

So I won’t take up too much space,

I promise.

[fashionlandscapeblog]

Ivan Pokidyshev Silence, 2023 Oil on canvas.

[vickyrlanda]

Hannah’s Prayer

Beneath the weight of silent years,

She knelt in anguish, drenched in tears.

Her heart, a barren, aching plea,

To God she whispered, “Remember me.”

Her rivals mocked, her hope grew thin,

Yet faith still burned deep within.

A vow she offered, bold and true:

“My son, O Lord, I’ll give to You.”

Her lips moved soft, no voice was heard,

But heaven caught her every word.

The priest misjudged her fervent cry,

Not knowing angels stood nearby.

Then came the day her arms held joy,

A miracle—a baby boy.

She named him Samuel, gift of grace,

The answer found in God’s embrace.

With trembling hands, her promise kept,

She brought her son where Eli slept.

“My heart exults, my spirit sings,

To You, O Lord, the King of kings!”

Through Hannah’s faith, the story flows,

A seed of hope in sorrow sown.

Her prayer, a beacon, strong and pure,

A mother’s love that will endure.

[vickyrlanda]

Emerging Light

I’ve wandered through a shadowed maze,

Where night devoured the brightest days.

The weight was heavy, the path unclear,

Each step I took was wrapped in fear.

The world once gray, now softly glows,

A quiet bloom where darkness grows.

The storm has passed, its rage subsides,

And hope awakens where it hides.

I’m learning now, as seasons turn,

That light and dark both have their burn.

But in the balance, I can see,

Life holds a deeper melody.

No longer drowning, I can breathe,

The air is sweet, my soul relieved.

From soil of sorrow, beauty springs,

And from my heart, a songbird sings.

The days ahead are painted new,

With skies of gold, and softer hues.

Though shadows linger, they don’t stay,

For dawn will always break the gray.

[prinnay]

Hanging stars

[vickyrlanda]

Childish Sliver

Sometimes, I feel the weight of dreams,

like faded wishes, torn at the seams.

A melody tucked in a childish heart,

a song that’s known its fair share of starts.

I wonder, Is this silly? Should I let it fade,

this hope for the stage, the songs I’ve made?

A writer’s pen, a singer’s voice—

dreams I hold that seem no choice.

There’s a part of me still holding on,

to childish hope that feels so wrong.

Like a kid again, nerdy and small,

daring to dream but bracing to fall.

I tell myself, It’s not meant to be,

not good enough for the world to see.

Yet there’s that glimmer, tender and slight,

that maybe, just maybe, I’ll prove it right.

But disappointment lingers near,

each time I hope, it feels so clear—

a fool’s embrace, a childish game,

a spark of hope, followed by shame.

[thoughtkick]

“And love is when someone who even knows your scars, stays to kiss them.”

— Benjamin Griss

[bottlecap-press]

The Natural History of Everything, by Emily Baughman

Poetry, chapbook, 20 pages, from Bottlecap Features. The Natural History of Everything is a poetry collection about hope, grief, and rebirth

From Emily Baughman's chapbook, The Natural History of Everything, available from Bottlecap Press!