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Poetry Samples
Excerpts from the upcoming collection The Walls Remember Her
Between Both Worlds
Hades wore a woman's face,
Voice a blade, arms a brace.
Her mind, her eyes, her endless falls,
The bed, the stairs, the underworld.
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Lifetimes stolen from her by a man,
Hardened to stone in her trembling hands.
She clutched too tightly, mistook control,
Split and served away her soul.
​
She gave me a crown of ash and bone,
Called me her heir, then left me alone.
Each minute I swallowed bound me more
A lifetime lived behind her door.​
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I became her mirror's flame,
Half myself, half her name.
Each day I felt her pull below,
Quiet grief I could not show.
​
But spring began beneath my skin,
A heartbeat small, a garden within.
I rooted myself where the soil was kind,
held him in sunlight, left her behind.
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Still, she called from the shadowed bed.
Her voice like smoke, fingers spread.
I climbed and descended year by year.
Half in her world, half still here.
​
I was Persephone split in two,
Queen of the dead, mother of dew.
But hear me now, no more descent.
I am the garden's firm intent.
I plant my grief. I live. I mend.
I am the love she could not send.
At the End
I watched you die
Over several hours.
Knelt at your bedside
As your breath grew shallow.
I wanted to go back
But not to see you again.
To tell a younger self
Don't worry, friend,
She will not be alone
When this finally ends.
​
Living Room
I won't treat grief
Like love confined
To a hospice bed,
Sedated, neglected,
Kept quiet to dull the dread.
I don't want to move on.
I want to dance with it.
Sing its tune
At the top of my lungs
In the living room.
Fall to my knees
In a spill of tears.
As proof love survives
All of my years.
Tower of Books
I will inherit a tower of books.
Millions of stories bought.
The walls will sink
Beneath their weight,
Settling where love once sought.
​
Her shelves were bones within the house,
Lined with spines that learned to bow.
Each title, a relic of her escape,
Each margin etched with vows.
​
The pages smell of candle smoke,
Of grief, lavender, and rain.
She underlined what broke her heart
Then read it once again.
​
By night, her stories hummed the walls,
soft murmurs through the vents and beams.
Silence learned to whisper back
In a language made of dreams.
​
I grew up in her paper shrine,
Where fiction blurred the air.
She read to remember what she'd lost
I write to keep her there.
​
The house remembers every word.
Pulses beat on every spine and seam.
I live among her gathered words,
Writing our shared dream.