surely, all beasts go to heaven.

feet rooted deeper than doubt.

I move like slow rivers—

patient, deliberate,

carving paths through stone.

I do not chase.

I beckon.

A feast waits,

not for occasion,

but because beauty

is reason enough.

self-hate is food for the hungry mouth that is overconsumption.

cynicism and cruelty is avoidance.

making your body and your mind a safe space to exist in by loving yourself and choosing radical acceptance will fill that void within you so much more than trying to escape yourself.

remember, you can let it go at any time. remember, you can choose love instead.

a soft glow lingers,

not reaching,

but waiting.

the world moves,

but your vision

remains still,

silent in its own way.

time drifts

in the space above,

where the horizon shifts

and you remain,

a constant,

untouched,

watching.

I was dusk, and you were silence.

You were calling me.

I was unmaking you.

I was the ache of glass.

I was the pulse of embers.

I was the blue of mourning.

You gave name to the nameless.

I was a girl ruin.

I was red.

I was hunger.

I was everything.

You.

You were the last wound in my hands.

I burn tonight.

I was a ghost debt.

I was the measure of sin and sky.

Life is shadow.

I was all famine and fire.

the blood of forgotten gods,

the weight of a thousand untold things.

bones shift like an ancient promise,

and time stands still,

like a caged bird nestled in your ribs—

the sky seeps into the horizon—

you could hold the world in your hands

and let it slip, slow as a throat closing,

watching chaos beg not for mercy,

but for release.

caveat

“…𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦…”

loving—so complex, so consuming—brings neither happiness nor even a place to rest, but rather a masquerade of unease and confusion. it can so easily be mistaken for connection, for being loved by another, when in truth, it is something else entirely.

maybe love itself has no butterfly validity, yet it remains a quiet neurosis of hope and trust, keeping us alight, sharing from both mind and heart. but if saving oneself from renewal or final balance is an error, then pure love rises.

beauty illuminates all kinds of love—elusive, unknowable—as if the essence of passion can sustain separation and reunion alike, stretching beyond time. it is shared even in spaces where destruction looms, because loving is everything, and also, nothing.

i show the peace i wish to experience with others.

in the simple act of giving, i find

the moment where hearts meet,

not in grand gestures,

but in the stillness of understanding.

what is given is not measured,

it moves freely, like light breaking through clouds,

softly, without demand.

i let go of the things

that ask for more than i can give.

in this, i find what it means

to be open, to hold without grasping.

it is not in what i have,

but in what i am willing to offer

that the world feels full.

i do not have a “process”, not in the way one might think.

i have made feeling a practice, and writing is simply an extension of that— it is not about making sense of what is inside of me, but about letting it exist in whatever form it takes.

what you all get is the rawest, realest forms of me. that is not something that i can break down into steps for replication. sometimes it is fragmented, messy, chaotic. other times, it is more settled, as if the words have always been waiting for me to catch up to them. either way, the words come when they must, not because i have called them, but because they have chosen to step into the light.

just allow yourself to be without expectation or judgment, and allow everything to flow through you.