erin.

Hey, I’m Erin.

I recently left a marriage that nearly broke me—

a place where abuse, silence, and fear took root in every corner of my home.

Now, I’m gathering the scattered pieces of who I was,

and slowly building the person I’m becoming.

This space is where I lay down the parts that still ache—

the grief that lingers like a shadow,

the raw edges of pain and the fierce hope that someday, somehow, I’ll feel whole again.

Here, you’ll find poems and posts that are acts of survival—

fragments of truth that rise from the ashes,

offered not for pity or spectacle, but for witnessing and healing.

If you’ve found your way here, thank you.

Thank you for holding space for someone still learning how to breathe. ❤️

My anxiety sounds like a hi-hat.

Not loud enough

for everyone else to notice,

just constant enough

that I can never forget it’s there.

Tick tick tick tick.

A tiny demon in the corner of my mind

with drumsticks clenched between his teeth,

keeping tempo

like my life depends on it.

And maybe it does.

Because somewhere along the way

my nervous system learned

that silence was dangerous.

So now every room becomes a stage,

every conversation a performance,

every mistake another reason

for the audience to boo.

My parents sit front row

screaming:

you are not good enough.

My ex husband leans back in his seat,

arms crossed,

telling me:

you are not pretty enough

to be loved gently.

The girl from middle school

still knows every slur by heart.

The woman from two years ago

repeats them louder.

And somewhere in the dark,

a man who took something from me

I can never fully get back

smiles like he still owns the theater.

Meanwhile Phil Anselmo is screaming

through blown-out speakers

inside my skull,

and the hi-hat

never,

ever,

stops.

Tick tick tick tick.

People call it anxiety

like it is small.

Like it is clinical.

Like it is a word

that belongs in soft doctor’s offices.

But to me,

it feels like surviving a concert

that never ends.

And some days

I am not even asking for peace anymore.

I am just waiting

for someone kind enough

to take the drumsticks

out of the demon’s hands

so I can finally rest

There’s something in my chest

that doesn’t sleep—

just lies low,

breathing shallow,

counting.

Not a heart, not exactly.

Something quieter.

Something waiting.

I’ve learned the signs:

the tightening wire,

the hum beneath my ribs,

the way laughter starts to feel

like borrowed time.

So I build distance

like barricades—

step back before the detonation,

before the shrapnel of me

finds someone soft.

I call it protection.

I call it mercy.

Because I have seen

what happens

when I don’t.

But sometimes—

in the still, unguarded moments—

I wonder

if the thing inside me

isn’t waiting to destroy,

but waiting

to be disarmed.

And I don’t know

which is more dangerous:

letting it explode,

or letting someone

get close enough

to try.

He called it turbulence.

I called it altitude loss.

I watched the instruments flicker

watched the horizon disappear

watched the nose dip lower and lower

while he kept insisting

we were flying straight.

I kept saying,

pull up.

Please.

Can’t you feel this?

Can’t you see the dark water

rising beneath us?

But he was flying by instinct

and instinct lies

when there’s no horizon left.

The graveyard spiral begins quietly.

A slight tilt.

A little more speed.

A feeling in your stomach

you can’t explain

but cannot ignore.

I knew we were falling

long before we hit the ground.

I knew because I was the one

counting every warning light,

memorizing every emergency exit,

bracing for impact

while he still had both hands

on the controls

telling me everything was fine.

He was supposed to be the pilot.

Instead, I became the black box—

keeping record of every missed signal,

every violent drop,

every time I begged him

to pull up.

And maybe that is the cruelest part:

not that we crashed,

but that I had to sit there

beside him,

watching the earth rush toward us,

knowing I was never going to be able

to save us both.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss

that steals something from you.

It didn’t rush,

didn’t take,

didn’t pull you somewhere

you hadn’t chosen to go.

It lingered.

Like breath held just a second too long,

like the quiet after something almost happens

and then does.

His hands weren’t claiming,

just there—

as if asking,

as if waiting.

And your body,

so used to bracing,

so used to preparing for impact,

did something unfamiliar

it softened.

You didn’t let go

because you didn’t want to.

Not out of fear,

not out of pressure,

but because for once

nothing in you was saying

run.

The world blurred at the edges

cold air, distant noise,

the shape of the night falling away

until there was only

warmth,

and breath,

and the quiet certainty

of being held

without being taken.

It wasn’t overwhelming.

It was steady.

And when you finally pulled back,

it didn’t feel like the end of something

just a pause

in a moment

your body wished

it could stay inside

a little longer.

They brushed my coat until it gleamed

under borrowed light.

Braided ribbons through my mane

so no one would notice

the knots beneath.

I learned early

how to circle the ring just right

head high,

back straight,

hooves landing where applause

likes them best.

People clapped.

They said beautiful,

said graceful,

said look how well she performs.

And I did.

I bowed on cue,

curtsied on command,

let them photograph the shine

without ever asking

how heavy the saddle felt.

Because a show pony is not meant

to speak of weight.

Only movement.

Only spectacle.

Only the polished rhythm

of doing exactly

what everyone hopes to see.

But sometimes,

when the gates close

and the arena lights go dark,

I stand alone in the quiet stall

and feel the dust settling

on my ribs.

No ribbons.

No audience.

Just the soft ache

of a creature

who was never asked

whether she wanted to run

wild in the field instead.

And somewhere beneath

the brushed coat

and the practiced step

there is a girl

still learning

what it feels like

to be known

without performing.

The type of music I listen to before I’ve even given the day a chance to start.. I mean.. “love is not enough after all, love is just a man I used to call”

Loneliness is a quiet room

where even the air feels untouched,

a chair pulled out across the table

for someone who hasn’t arrived yet.

I keep setting the place anyway

hope is stubborn like that.

There is a connection my body remembers

before my mind can name it:

the warmth of being chosen,

the steady rhythm of another heartbeat

close enough to calm my own.

It isn’t desire alone.

It’s need

ancient and unashamed

the human ache to be held

without explanation.

So I gather the scattered pieces of myself

and wait,

not empty,

just open,

like a door with the light on

for whoever finally comes home.

Today

hope felt like a joke I told myself too many times.

Like a prayer that bounced off the ceiling

and came back quieter.

I held it in my hands

and it felt thin.

Frayed at the edges.

Embarrassing.

Hope used to feel golden.

Now it feels like

trying not to flinch

when someone says “one day.”

I told myself

maybe hope is the problem.

Maybe if I stop wanting,

stop believing,

stop expecting tenderness to exist for me

I’ll stop hurting.

But even as I said it,

something small inside me

refused to die.

Not loud.

Not brave.

Just… there.

A stubborn flicker

that whispers,

“What if?”

What if I’m not foolish, just early.

What if the waiting isn’t punishment, just unfinished.

What if hope doesn’t have to feel strong

to still be real?

Maybe hope isn’t fireworks.

Maybe it’s a match cupped in shaking hands.

Maybe it’s crying and praying anyway.

Maybe it’s saying,

“I don’t believe this will happen for me,”

and still looking toward the horizon.

Hopeless hope

is still hope.

It’s the kind that survives betrayal.

The kind that crawls when it can’t run.

The kind that doesn’t feel victorious

just alive.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

Maybe I don’t need radiant faith.

Maybe I just need

the smallest refusal

to close my heart.

Because even doubting hope

means I haven’t buried it.

And if it’s still breathing

even barely

then so am I.