Thursday, February 27, 2025

Between Fear and Longing

A lighthouse in a storm,
built on a solid foundation of rocks,
unshaken by wind, by rain,
by the restless shifting of seasons.

She watches him,
fingers tracing the hair on his forearm,
wondering if even granite can crumble,
or if a lighthouse ever tires of seeing the ocean
without touching it.

She is not the storm that ravages,
not the waves that crash and recede.
She is the wind that hesitates at the shore,
pressing close but never holding,
never knowing what it feels like to be still,
to give in.

She tells herself it's foolish,
this fear, this doubt.
Torn between past and future,
she listens for the sound
of straining steel, of crumbling rocks,
hoping the light won't flicker out one day,
or long for calmer waters.

 

Wednesday, February 26, 2025

Semicolon

A pause, but not a stop,
the hitch of breath before the next step;
a river stone bridging two shores
that could stand alone,
but are stronger together.

Not an ending, and never an afterthought,
just a promise that something more is coming;
a hinge between moments,
connecting unfinished thoughts.

Some things are never meant to end,
only to shift, to carry forward;
a thought, a step, a story
still unfolding with quiet resilience,
choosing, again and again,
to continue.

 

Monday, February 24, 2025

In the Basement of the MIT Library at 3 in the Morning

In the farthest corner,
where the air is thick with dust,
lies the ancient catacombs,
where books decay on wooden shelves,
tired spines with cracked leather covers,
and once-gold lettering
blackened with time.

Beneath a background buzz of fluorescent lights,
forgotten ink expounds long-disproven theories,
margins marked by curious hands
that once craved understanding.

I lose myself among ruins of bygone discoveries,
where Maxwell’s pen once conjured cosmic storms,
electric arcs and magnetic fields danced
in radiant ballet, a universe unwrapped in shimmering light.
Nature’s hidden script brought boldly alive,
in brittle pages of theories and equations
that still hold true, enabling technology
Maxwell never dreamed.

I sit among the stacks,
thumbing through yellowed pages,
touching the spirit of invention,
giving breath to a past that still lingers,
among guardians of knowledge lost to neglect,
holding secrets like sealed jars
in a dark place no one ever dares to go.

 

Thursday, February 20, 2025

Second Chance

When I saw you
standing in the rain,
your Boston Red Sox cap
pulled low over your eyes,
raindrops dripping off your chin,
I knew.

The wind tugged at the edges
of everything unsaid,
and I carried the weight of regret
on my shoulders when I ran to you.

Your eyes,
familiar but distant,
held all the pieces
of what we were before.

I should have stayed,
I whispered,
my voice trembling
with the heaviness of lost time.

You smiled,
soft, like forgiveness,
or maybe hope.

And suddenly,
there was no space
between us,
only the quiet understanding
that love,
even fractured,
can find its way
home.

 

Too Late

Your hands are soft and gentle,
You say my name like a promise,
a place I could rest,
but I don't know how.
Only how to guard the wreckage
of a past I never asked for
and can't forget.

It's not fair to you.
I'll never be able
to give you what you need.

I watch you turn away,
your footsteps fading into a road
I should have walked beside you.

I close the door,
press my head against the wood,
and whisper your name,
too soft, too late.

 

Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Are You There, Becky? It's Me, God

Are you there, Becky?
You've called out to me once or twice,
and I’ve been calling your name.
Maybe you haven't heard me.
You've been searching for answers
in the ruins of yesterday.
Running from ghosts,
chasing pieces of what was taken.

But I've reached for you.

I've answered you with rain,
soft tapping against your window.
A quiet hand on your shoulder
when you were shaking.
I sent a sunrise,
a warm promise; a new day
spilling over the horizon.

I sent voices when you needed them.
The friend who stayed;
the stranger who appeared
at just the right moment;
sometimes even poems,
penned by anonymous hands,
that spoke directly to your heart.

I've always been here,
in the warmth of morning sunlight,
the breath that fills your lungs,
the love that still reaches for you,
even when you don’t reach back.

The sun still rises on cloudy days, Becky.
Faith is knowing I'm there,
even when you can't see me.

 

Overflowing

You okay? he asks.

And I wonder how to cram
a thunderstorm into a teacup.

I’m fine.

But fine is brittle glass
and we both hear it shatter.

He waits.
In his eyes there is stillness,
a space wide enough to lay down
all the things I don't want to say.

So I try again.

I'm afraid of moving forward.
I'm afraid of standing still.
I'm tired of hiding from shadows.
I'm drowning in thoughts too sharp to touch.
You deserve so much more than this tangle of scars.


The thunderstorm grows to a hurricane,
the teacup overflows.

Tears.

He gathers the storm clouds in his arms,
catches the falling pieces,
puts them all gently back into the cup.

I'm here, he whispers.

And somehow, it's enough.
I'm still breaking,
But I'm not breaking
alone.

 

Thursday, February 13, 2025

Survivor's Guilt

The car idles at the curb,
headlights slicing through fog.
Your name is still on the mailbox,
an epitaph in block letters.
The porch light still burns
as if you're waiting for a friend.
My breath fogs the window,
and I trace circles without thinking.
I sit still, gripping the wheel too hard.

And I wonder if I should have stayed
with you that night.
If I could have been the anchor
to hold you here.

 

Tuesday, February 11, 2025

Trafficked

She steps into the room,
eyes dark with untold stories.
Her shadow follows behind her,
heavy, trembling.

Her words come slow,
like untangling a knot.
I’m here, she says.
And that's enough.

The circle holds her,
gentle hands outstretched,
no chains, no demands,
only space, wide enough
for all her scars.

They share their own stories,
offering sparks of hope
like scattered wildflowers.
She doesn’t reach out yet,
but watches how they glow.

For now, she listens.
Tomorrow, maybe,
maybe she will share her name.

---

This is about an 11 year old girl in my support group for victims of child sexual abuse. She was rescued from a sex trafficking ring in July 2024, and was brought to us in January. She had been taken from her home in Vietnam when she was only four, and sold as a sex slave. Her parents haven't been located, and likely will never be.  Her scars run very deep, deeper than any I've ever known. In support group we always say there are no degrees of sexual abuse, that we're all the same no matter our history...but this one is different. She's broken in ways none of us can imagine.

Please consider donating to Rapha International. I'm not affiliated with the organization in any way, but I believe in their mission, and I know the work they do makes a difference. Their website is here: https://rapha.org/

 

Monday, February 10, 2025

Catharsis

A pink dress hangs,
lace tracing the hem
like soft cobwebs,
ribbon cinching the waist,
still tied neatly in a bow.

Satin fabric, once smooth,
now creased with time,
white lace across the bodice,
where a silver cross
once hung above her heart.

And there, just below the waistline,
a deep red stain blooms
against blushing cotton.
Dark at the center, its edges
feather into rusty veins,
spilling like cracked porcelain
up the seams, sinking
deep into the weave.

No soap, no scrubbing,
no pleading for reversal of time
could ever lift the stain,
as if a desperate prayer
could somehow give back
what was taken.

She wore it only once,
but it clings to her still,
an insidious monster hiding
in the back of her closet,
whispering I will never let go.

Tonight, beneath the hush
of falling snow,
she strikes a match,
lets flame kiss the hem,
and watches as cloth curls inward,
blackens, folds into nothing.

Smoke rises, lifting rage
and betrayal into the sky,
flames devour lace and satin,
twist ribbons into snarling soot.

It howls as it burns, the beast
that held her down, left her hollow,
now dying in its final fury,
spitting out embers like curses
until it collapses inward,
curling into smoke
and blackened ash.

She watches, silent,
until only glowing fragments remain.

She falls to the ground on virgin snow,
and a single tear slips down her cheek,
melting into the warm relief
of letting go.

 

Thursday, February 6, 2025

Lie Here With Me

If we just lie here
holding each other,
maybe the world outside
will wash away.

If we just lie here,
maybe time will forget us,
draping night over our bodies
like a soft blanket.

If we just breathe,
slow and steady as the tide,
maybe the weight of yesterday
will loosen its grip.

Stay.

Let the world spin without us.
Let morning wait.

 

Tuesday, February 4, 2025

All Of The Good Ones Are Married Or Gay

I search for a man, but you know what they say:
all of the good ones are married or gay.

The sweet ones, the smart ones, the guys who can cook,
all off the market, no need to look.

That guy at the coffee shop? He’s married with three.
The handsome musician? Prefers men over me.
The poet, the painter, the one who loves cats,
the baker who makes the most heavenly snacks?
All spoken for, taken, or simply don’t care
for my feminine charms or my long, flowing hair.

The funny, the stable, the ones who can dance,
all wear a ring, or won’t give girls a chance.

So here I am, just stuck in the fray,
because all of the good ones are married or gay.

 

What Hurts The Most

You planted doubt in places
where certainty belongs,
turned trust into something
I can't hold.

You bent my compass
into a question mark,
so it never points
to a safe place.

Of all the wounds,
it's this unsteady truth
that won't stop bleeding.

Of all the things you broke,
that's the one I still
can't forgive you for.

 

Sunday, February 2, 2025

City Snowscape

Snow drifts softly
through the city's breath,
a quiet visitor
among the clatter of engines and footsteps.

Streetlights catch flakes,
turning silent descent
into whispers of gold.
Buildings, stoic and gray,
wear soft crowns of white,
their edges blurred,
corners softened.

The pavement a canvas
for fleeting patterns,
boot prints, tire tracks,
child-sized angels and sleds.

The city slows, just for a moment,
wrapped in innocence.

 

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