Poetry

The Girl Behind the Curtain

We live in a world of inputs. Images, headlines, voices, each one a data point training us to see, to want, to ignore. The feed never stops. It pulls our gaze from the very things that matter. And we become complicit, numb, scattered, more machine than human, hearts alive yet barely awake. But what if we chose differently? What if we trained our gaze on mercy, on love, on prayers whispered in the dark? What if we turned our attention to the neighbor, to the stranger, to the o

Meet me where the sunlight ends Meet me where the truth never bends Bring all that you're scared to defend And lay it down when you walk through my door Throw all of it out on the floor Your sorrow, your beauty, your war I want it all, I want it all Bring your secrets, bring your scars Bring your glory, all you are Bring your daylight, bring your dark Share your silence And unpack your heart Show me something the rest never see Give me all that you hope to receive Your deepes

Air bends differently now. Corners remember what eyes have passed through. Drawers hang open like questions I did not ask. Pages no longer face the way they once did. Light feels sharper, its edges tracing the fingerprints left in its path. Nothing is missing yet everything has shifted, as if the walls themselves were turned to listen. And I stand here, measured by a presence that should never have known my name.

No one saw it. Not really. They were watching everything else. But between fabric and breath, between tiled floor and rising ache, a hand reached out and gave what words could not. Not a letter. Not a kiss. Just color, quiet and gold, alive, still becoming. They were watched, so they spoke in color. They were bound, so they answered in absence. They were apart, so they touched through the shared weight of silence. A bud passed into open palm to say: This is hard. But I am wit

She is not waiting. She is not lost. She is not half of anything. She walks with the wind The sun knows her by name. The earth softens for her feet. She has made peace with silence, and drinks from wells no man can find. She does not bend to flattery. She is not moved by noise. Her joy is ancient not loud, but deep. Every thread of her robe was spun from firelight and prayer. Her gold is not for beauty, but for memory. Her eyes do not plead. They reflect. She was never search

He moved with intent, not finesse or delight, trading silence for power, and truth for slight. A master of pieces, of shadows and strain, he played for control, not for heart, not for name. Behind him, trophies of dust-laden lore, relics of battles long blurred by the score. He smirked like a victor who’d studied the rules, never noticing time rewrites them for fools. He captured the Queen, but in some other tale, where fate wore a mask and hearts were for sale. The one he on

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

They did not begin as women. They began as echoes, fragments of something too inconvenient to carry, so the world set them down and kept walking. The first longed for stillness that didn’t feel like exile. She lived among people who praised quiet but feared depth. Now she carries her voice like a lantern, not to lead, but to notice. The second longed for touch without transaction. Not the kind that claims or proves, but the kind that says: I see you. Stay. She spent a lifetim

He does not turn. The yellow behind him burns, but he lets it shout. Lets it fill the room without meeting its gaze. He listens to something quieter beneath his ribs. Something older than language. Something he never brings to the surface. This is what it looks like when softness grows teeth. When a boy becomes a wall because no one taught him how to be held without disappearing. And still, beneath the silence, his posture sings: I am still here. Even if no one ever taught me

The room is full shoulders squared, smiles fixed, coffee cooling in trembling hands. Everyone speaks in practiced tones, circling the air like bees around a flame without ever touching it. But she sees it. Not a person. Not a ghost. Just the shape of something true the thing they’ve all agreed, silently, not to name. It sits in the center. Uninvited. Undeniable. And she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t fold her hands just so. She doesn’t offer a bridge to mak