They say
there is no light in my poems.
I say
dear, these are not poems at all.
Justice—
scattered, crumbled,
only sometimes
bleeds through the ink.

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Have you noticed how
no one runs
unless they are late
or young
or broken
in some desperate, hopeful way?

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The sky weeps,
but it doesn’t feel sad.
It feels honest.
As if grief could be shared
without being explained.

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Let them call you too much.
Let them say you burn too brightly.
The stars are not dimmed
because eyes are unready.

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Dare to love me
And I’ll give you the reasons
you forgot you needed.

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I don't know if introverts are born or made.
I don't know whether they truly enjoy solitude
or are just scared of people—
simply afraid of being judged.

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Some days, you are not the fire.
You are the ash.
And even ash has a purpose—
it tells the story of heat, of struggle, of survival.
It is the proof that something once burned

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Stillness is a verse, too.
Breathing, without explanation, is a line.

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What we give is what we are.
And what we are is what we tend to in the quiet.
The unseen hours.
The mornings before the world stirs.
The nights when no one is watching.

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There was a before.
Now there is an after.
And in between,
there is me—
trying to find
a place to stand
in this new, uneven world.

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