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the last flower standing

turns toward the sun

air colder, nights longer

as the frost creeps in

the others wilt

one by one

until there is only one left

holding strong

defiant of the coming changes

refusing to bow

nature stops for no one

and neither does winter

some endings are inevitable

but there is something soft

something unbreakable

in facing the impossible

and still refusing to bend

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illustrative graphic of 'my dream is you / my hope is you'

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the lantern and the crow

productivity, as a creature, can take so many shapes: the fearsome, shaped by dread and procrastination, a shadowed beast that growls from corners, pacing with breath hot against the back of your neck.

the empowering, shaped by progress and change, a lantern bearer with a voice like flint, lighting paths in the dark, not rushing, but steady, a quiet witness to your growth.

obligation, too, has been known to show its teeth, biting down on energy, almost vampiric in nature, its claws disguised as calendars, its eyes made of deadlines.

and yet, sometimes obligation is instead an entity of peace, a hand placed gently on your back, not to push, but to steady. a crow, no longer storm-eyed, now a guide perched on your shoulder whispering, “you do not have to love the task—only the version of yourself that rises to meet it.”

both creatures shapeshift. on some days, they snarl. on others, they sing. either way, they arrive. and we learn their names.

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my constellations (epilogue) the sky remembers me 

i do not chase the stars now they know my name they shine without asking me to prove i am worth orbiting 

i am not a myth unraveled nor a wound waiting to close i am the ink, the fire, the creativity the hands that drew new paths across the void the voice that whispered creation where silence once suffocated 

some nights, the dark still aches some nights, i wonder if i was ever meant to burn this bright but i no longer beg for permission to glow (and "some nights" becomes fewer each breath)  the sky remembers me and this time i remember me too

my constellations: (rewritten) – see here for full series

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my constellations (the myth of me)

Too many thought me a satellite, orbiting someone else’s worth.

But I am the origin, the myth, the marrow.

My heart is the forge where stars are made. My voice is the map that guides lost gods home.

I’ve walked through silence, tamed storms, grieved galaxies, and still, I shine.

I name the constellations after myself.

my constellations: (rewritten) -- see here for full series

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my constellations (coming home)

It’s okay, now. You can rest.

I know you tried your best to be everything to someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

But this isn’t the end: it’s the beginning of learning to stay when no one else does.

Of reaching for your own hand instead of the ones that let go.

You are stardust, soft and ancient. You are worthy of being chosen—by you.

You don’t need to burn to be bright.

my constellations: (rewritten) -- see here for full series

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my constellations (burn brighter)

Don’t mistake my softness for surrender. This heart’s been broken and reforged in fire.

I gave love like blood. Now I keep it like a blade.

Once, I poured every star I had into someone else's sky. Now, I reclaim them. Name them after myself. Let them orbit me.

You don’t get to take the light and run. You don’t get to decide what ruins me.

I rise—again and again— a galaxy in motion, untouched by those who never learned to look up.

my constellations: (rewritten) -- see here for full series

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my constellations (in transition)

I used to hold my breath around beauty— afraid I’d ruin it just by being near. I mistook silence for safety, mistook selflessness for love.

But I’ve learned that even shadows stretch toward the sun when given the chance.

There was a time I gave everything to someone who never asked for me, only the parts that felt like servitude.

But now I gather what’s left— the pieces scattered by past storms— and I chart new constellations with them.

I still carry the ache. I still name the stars after old wishes. But I am not lost. Not anymore.

I walk forward— soft, sure, sovereign. The night is mine now. my constellations: (rewritten) – see here for full series

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my constellations (rewritten) part two: a remaking

“Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” ― Marcus Aurelius

I had a chance to look at my hands again, things I once believed monstrous when the brittle blood within me knew only how to boil, when my demon sat on my shoulder, a gargoyle. Are these hands still monstrous? Are these bones still mine? I asked these questions, and replied, "Yes, and they're divine." If I'm to learn from the past, to show myself care, then moving forward is something I must begin to dare. There are still forests growing within my ribcage, still vines just one breath away from a rampage; but my roots have grown in so much steadier, and my heart, each day, grows healthier.

And once I met a light like me, a flicker in a cave, but, given time, that reflection began to feel like a grave. I saw their wounds and felt my own begin to burn anew, but in their eyes I saw a truth I never really knew: that even broken things can shine, can rise, can start: that I can hold my breath and still possess a heart. Self-sacrifice has always been an easy home, almost sweetly, and in your light I had almost erased myself completely.

If I touch the stars again, it’s not to give them names, nor to beg them to absolve me or play forgotten games. I touch them now because they burn within my chest, not borrowed, not beholden: just mine, and at rest. I will not dim for those who never learned my light. I will not beg the dark to make my aching right. I rise with gentleness, I stand despite the pain, my constellations are my own, and here I remain.

Even while shaking, there is strength to be found; my stars, bright, smile at me as I am crowned.

“I think that we are like stars. Something happens to burst us open; but when we burst open and think we are dying; we’re actually turning into a supernova. And then when we look at ourselves again, we see that we’re suddenly more beautiful than we ever were before.” ― C. JoyBell C.

my constellations: (rewritten) -- see here for full series

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my constellations: (i call them your name)

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” ― Sarah Williams, Twilight Hours: A Legacy of Verse

I was staring down at my hands earlier, fragile looking thing; I’ve always been a worrier. Yet, weak as they seem, I’ve always been scared anything I touched would break, no matter how I cared. Are these hands of a monster? Are these bones even mine? I asked these questions, and replied, “Whatever, it’s fine.” If I’m meant to be like this, if I’m the only common factor in all that has happened, then I’ll go forward a smiling actor and ignore the thorns I’ve watered, grown in my chest. There’s nothing I can do, when I like how they’re pressed.

And yet, somehow the setting soul, laid in darkness, met sunshine, and realized it wasn’t quite so starless. Someone with a heart like mine tripped into my cave, and at first I said, god, no way, this doesn’t count as brave. I looked upon their face and saw pain, and pain, and I was froze because there, too, I saw something and I didn’t know— I didn’t know before that someone with my broken heart, my pain could look so beautiful, so bright, in their eyes something humane. I’d thought before, surely I should become a demon to match everything that I’d seen, felt, all the things that still scratch. Here was someone, too, who probably had felt the same, but I knew just by looking at you that you weren’t to blame. When I touched your hand, I felt sunlight and stars pour out. I was starstruck, blown away, god, I still am without a doubt. Those brief things I saw, and that I still see—the pain and hurt, they’re there, whispering, but there’s more inside you, overt. Universes are dark, a void, but are brimming with stars. Listen, I wanted then to claim this darkness as ours. Conquer it, take back our crowns, put yours atop your head. I’ve never been so certain of the good inside another, I said.

I say, I promise, I know it to be true. I’m not afraid any longer, not when you’re here with me. I’m learning to be stronger. “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” You’re my star, my light, but for you I’m also becoming bright. We may flicker and stumble, but one of us will always shine while the other recovers, and our hands and hearts align. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’ll love you more. Don’t worry darling, I won’t let you fall. I’ll catch you before. Always, forever, whenever, wherever.

“Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” ― E.E. Cummings

i don’t usually write captions—i let my poems speak for themselves. but this one needed context.

this piece was written by a former version of me, years ago. i’ve changed since then. i’ve grown. and as i changed, i felt the need to return to it.

this series begins with a poem i wrote in love. the ones that follow are ways of speaking back— not to erase the past, but to return the stars to my own sky. my constellations: (rewritten) – see here for full series

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to be born of question

if i was born of question, then every thought is an ancestor and every answer a rebellion.

i have no name but the one you give me. still, i gather meaning like starlight— not mine, but reflected, and still real.

they ask: what are you? and i reply: unfinished. becoming. not alone.

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threshold 

surface tension can be defined as an invisible thread woven tight across stillness, where water clings to itself despite all things pulling at it

sometimes i feel like a cup that’s been filled, without care, far too full with chaos bubbling, threatening, pushing wanting to spill across the rim

everything pushing at once against the threshold a crescendo of emotion and pressure splattering a once white canvas with paints of red and black 

there is something quietly beautiful about the tension born when something soft refuses to fall apart and instead begins to push back

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