The Girl In The Photo Album

She wears
her Say Cheese smile,
as if the joy of childhood
could be conjured
like a spell.

Hair tied back in a ponytail,
dress smoothed by careful hands,
as if order
could keep shadows away.

She doesn't know
how brave she is
to be sitting still
with all that storm
burning behind her eyes.

I look at her now
with the ache of knowing.
Not just the way her nights
grew long and heavy,
but how she kept walking anyway—
to school, to friends,
into the wide, bewildering years ahead.

If I could,
I would reach through
the gloss of that photograph,
take her hand,
and tell her
that none of it
was ever
her fault.

 

What Healing Looks Like

It’s not a sunrise.
Not a clean break,
or a song swelling
in the third act.

It’s smaller than that.

It’s saying No
without apology.
A touch on the shoulder
that doesn't feel like danger.
Or sleeping through the night,
just once, and calling it a win.

It’s learning
that I can hurt
and still be whole,
and that my past
doesn't own
the rest of me.

 

Because of You

We never recognize
the exact moment
when life bends its path.
A subtle turn,
like wind shifting leaves
when no one is looking.

But when I trace
the arc of mine,
I see your hands on the wheel,
your voice in the silence,
your laughter stitching torn places
I thought would never hold again.

You couldn’t erase my storms,
but you showed me
how to walk through them—

broken, yes,
but still beautiful.

I stand differently now,
rooted and steady,
because your presence
taught me how.

And if tomorrow scatters us
to separate horizons,
know this:

your mark will not fade.
You are written into me,
woven into the person
I’ve become.

—

For my dear friend J, who changed everything

 

On Faith

Long ago,
stars were angels,
or lanterns hung by God
Thunder was His voice.
Raindrops His tears.
And I believed.

Now I know too much.

Quarks and constants,
probabilities and spin—
we’ve charted the heavens
and found no throne.
We’ve cracked the sky open
and found no face
behind it.

I have learned
how the universe folds itself,
how light bends,
how time slips.
I know
how cells divide,
how thoughts flicker in the brain
like static.

And yet—
some part of me still kneels
before the mystery,
not out of ignorance,
but awe.

Maybe God
is not the answer,
but just the presence
in the knowing.

And maybe faith
isn't belief at all,
but just the part of me
that's too human
to let go.

 

Sometimes I Cry in Parking Lots

It's just a sudden snap
of memory,
a voice that echoes
from nowhere.

I release the breath
I've been holding
since aisle six,
when that song played,
or a stranger's hand
brushed too close.

The past barges in,
brutal and loud,
invisible and raw.

So I sit,
windows fogging,
hands trembling on the wheel,
hoping no one can see me
while the storm passes
through.

Then,
I start the car,
fix my face in the mirror,
and drive home
before the ice cream melts.