Wonderland Wanderess

 This Valentine’s feels softer—precious and new, Not harsh or rushed, just love that follows through. No dying sparks or moments up in flame, Just steady hands that hold me and know my name. You came gently with patience and a quiet air, No point to make; no weight for me to bear. A love that lets me breathe and just be me, That meets my heart with depth and honesty. You love me in the moments few can see, In choosing presence and with certainty. In listening when my voice begins to shake, In every pause you soften for my sake. And on this day we mark upon our skin, Two matching pieces where “us” did begin. Not ink for show; not promises in haste, But meaning etched in time we’ll never waste. A Valentine not wrapped in fleeting flair, But written in commitment, strong and fair. A shared reminder, permanent and true, Of love that’s chosen daily—me and you. So, this year, I don’t need roses red, I need the love you give in things unsaid. My first Valentine’s Day ever with love that’s...

  Death comes dressed in quiet rot, A patient thief that can’t be bought. It counts our breaths; it knows our name, It waits for weakness; waits for flame. It seeps through cracks we swear are sealed, No prayer can stop what’s been revealed. It leans in close; it learns our fears, It feeds on time; it drinks our years. It takes the warmth; it leaves the cold, It strips the young; it humbles the old. It drags its fingers through the past, Reminds us nothing here can last. We bargain in the dead of night, We curse the dark; we beg the light. We promise change; we promise truth, Just give us back their stolen youth. But death does not negotiate, It doesn’t pause; it doesn’t wait. It turns the lock; it shuts the door, And leaves us wrecked upon the floor. Grief blooms black inside the chest, A living thing that never rests. It gnaws at hope; it dulls the mind, It warps our sense of space and time. The world moves on—cruel; unaware, While we are frozen in despair. The sun still rises, w...

 My body is a canvas—weathered, worn, and wise, A living, breathing gallery beneath the open skies. Every line is intentional; every mark is true, I wear my history proudly, in black and grey and blue. The needle hums softly, like a truth being told, Etching heart into memory, steady and bold. It hurts but so did living; so did learning how to stay, So, I let pain become purpose, and ink show the way. Each tattoo is a chapter I refused to erase, Moments carved in flesh, that time could not replace. They map where I fell; where I learned how to stand, A guide of survival, drawn by my own hand. I ink over silence that once lived in my chest, Over nights I barely breathed; over wars I suppressed. What tried to destroy me now lives in design, Transformed into beauty; permanent and mine. These marks are not trends, or careless display, They’re vows to my younger self—I made it; I stayed. Every symbol a promise; every word a release, A visual prayer for strength; for healing, and peace. ...