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Blood Moon over Stonehenge

A place to return to, a name whispered when in need,

but never the first thought, never the safe haven

someone runs to just because they want to stay.

I build homes in my heart for people,

decorate them with warmth,

hang their laughter on the walls,

tuck their sorrows into the corners,

but when I turn around—

I am outside again, staring at a door

that was never meant to open for me.

I hold the weight of their unsaid words,

trace the cracks in their voices,

pull them close when their world tilts—

but my voice? My cracks?

I am an option, a convenience,

a lighthouse for lost ships,

but never the shore anyone chooses to rest upon.

I see beauty in fleeting things—

a smile breaking through exhaustion,

the way light catches on tired eyes,

the soft sincerity of someone being loved.

I capture it, frame it, gift it back to them

so they know they are seen,

so they never forget they are adored.

But me? Who looks at me and thinks,

‘She is beautiful today—let me keep this moment’?

No one.

I stand in crowded circles,

woven into the fabric of people's lives,

yet never stitched into their hearts.

I belong everywhere and nowhere,

a guest in every story but my own.

And when the night folds over me,

when the silence stretches too long,

I whisper to the dark—

"I wish I had a me for me."

A carpet of lush, green moss