Rec
I know a woman
who keeps buying puzzles
chinese
puzzles
blocks
wires
pieces that finally fit
into some order.
she works it out
mathematically
she solves all her
puzzles
lives down by the sea
puts sugar out for the ants
and believes
ultimately
in a better world.
her hair is white
she seldom combs it
her teeth are snaggled
and she wears loose shapeless
coveralls over a body most
women would wish they had.
for many years she irritated me
with what I consider her
eccentricities -
like soaking eggshells in water
(to feed the plants so that
theyâd get calcium).
but finally when I think of her
life
and compare it to other lives
more dazzling, original
and beautiful
I realize that she has hurt fewer
people than anybody I know
(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).
she has had some terrible times,
times when maybe I should have
helped her more
for she is the mother of my only
child
and we were once great lovers,
but she has come through
like I said
she has hurt fewer people than
anybody I know,
and if you look at it like that,
well,
she has created a better world.
she has won.
Frances, this poem is for
you.
Jan 28, 2025
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Rec
I hope you keep what resonates, and leave what doesnât. I deleted IG for years. I got back on last August and have felt compelled to write - usually in moments where Iâm broken open. My most recent piece I lay here for you:
My Melodramatic Dispatch đ (pt 1 of ?)
TLDR: The girls are fighting but theyâre metaphors. Enjoy :)
(ft. life lately)
I like to think that Quiet and Silence are like sisters. And whatâs the difference between them?
Quiet sighs sweetly with you in small and unnoticed moments--like pausing to admire spring blossoms, or the stillness after finishing a book you didnât want to end. She reaches for your hand and pulls you close--offering an embrace during lifeâs painful moments. In grief, she sits beside you, feeling your ache and holding space for precious memories. She smiles wryly as two strangers catch eyes--feeling the world fade, and the pull of an invisible thread between them. When words fall short in sacred moments, she holds the fragile stillness of a shared, knowing gaze. Quiet is a gentle strength. She is permission to savor, to soften, to stay. Quiet is a doe resting peacefully on a sunlit patch of earth, present & unafraid.
Silence looks at you sharply, unrelenting. She sees past your facade and dares you to face the truth. She sits--sovereign & accusing--in the breathless gap of a loverâs quarrel. Her presence--undeniable and weighty--strips you bare, leaving only your soul. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as your lover walks through it, slamming the door behind them. She doesnât flinch. She walks over, kneels beside you, & calmly places a hand on your shoulder. Silence is not cruel, but a reckoning. She rages. She deafens & consumes. She is a wave--denying you air as she pulls you under the weight of her.
As sisters, of course they argue. They arrive at the door of your moment--an unanswered text, an awkward pause, a delayed response--& bicker about who the waiting belongs to. Silence sneers, mocking your vulnerability. She floods your head with panic, cringe, & regret. Quiet protests gently, insisting thereâs no need to spiral--nothing has been lost: not your dignity, not your strength, not your beauty or worth.Â
Ironically during the purgatory of a message left unanswered, or the unnatural lull in connection, you have neither sister. Only a cacophony of what-ifs & anxiety.
But as sisters, of course they reconcile. (To be continuedâŠ)
I like to think that Quiet and Silence are like sisters. And whatâs the difference between them?
Quiet sighs sweetly with you in small and unnoticed moments--like pausing to admire spring blossoms, or the stillness after finishing a book you didnât want to end. She reaches for your hand and pulls you close--offering an embrace during lifeâs painful moments. In grief, she sits beside you, feeling your ache and holding space for precious memories. She smiles wryly as two strangers catch eyes--feeling the world fade, and the pull of an invisible thread between them. When words fall short in sacred moments, she holds the fragile stillness of a shared, knowing gaze. Quiet is a gentle strength. She is permission to savor, to soften, to stay. Quiet is a doe resting peacefully on a sunlit patch of earth, present & unafraid.
Silence looks at you sharply, unrelenting. She sees past your facade and dares you to face the truth. She sits--sovereign & accusing--in the breathless gap of a loverâs quarrel. Her presence--undeniable and weighty--strips you bare, leaving only your soul. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as your lover walks through it, slamming the door behind them. She doesnât flinch. She walks over, kneels beside you, & calmly places a hand on your shoulder. Silence is not cruel, but a reckoning. She rages. She deafens & consumes. She is a wave--denying you air as she pulls you under the weight of her.
As sisters, of course they argue. They arrive at the door of your moment--an unanswered text, an awkward pause, a delayed response--& bicker about who the waiting belongs to. Silence sneers, mocking your vulnerability. She floods your head with panic, cringe, & regret. Quiet protests gently, insisting thereâs no need to spiral--nothing has been lost: not your dignity, not your strength, not your beauty or worth.Â
Ironically during the purgatory of a message left unanswered, or the unnatural lull in connection, you have neither sister. Only a cacophony of what-ifs & anxiety.
But as sisters, of course they reconcile. (To be continuedâŠ)
Jun 20, 2025
Rec
I knew this love of mine was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleeps, but the kind that floats, listless and unmoored, like a feather dislodged in a storm. It drifted upward, aimless, circling, caught in the breath of things that once felt steady: laughter, warmth, the scent of jasmine from my grandmotherâs porch before the war of illness took her away. Joyful people are rarely light. The ones who care the most often carry the heaviest sorrow, but they smile, because someone has to.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
Rec
đ«i canât listen to music without thinking about her. every piece of shitty poetry that condemns my for you page makes me think of her in our living room. she is holding bills as she sits on our couch, a calculator on the table and a glass in the other hand. i will ask her what she wants for dinner, and she will tell me.
thereâs something so guttural about knowing you want to love someone for the rest of your life. that little moments like a dinner order are exactly what will give you the drive to wake up and slave away to a 9 to 5. ive been thinking about what i wanna be a lot lately. i think itâs honestly teaching. philosophy. i like to imagine myself as a philosophy professor discussing love with my students, i would tell them about my little artist at home and our baby girl and how i too thought marriage was simply the removal of autonomy until it befell my door.
i think thatâs a normal way to feel, with tubes of âthe good ol ball and chainâ and âcanât live with her canât live without herâ down our throats like prospective foie gras.
but my love is gentle. it is patient. it is kind.
thereâs something so guttural about knowing you want to love someone for the rest of your life. that little moments like a dinner order are exactly what will give you the drive to wake up and slave away to a 9 to 5. ive been thinking about what i wanna be a lot lately. i think itâs honestly teaching. philosophy. i like to imagine myself as a philosophy professor discussing love with my students, i would tell them about my little artist at home and our baby girl and how i too thought marriage was simply the removal of autonomy until it befell my door.
i think thatâs a normal way to feel, with tubes of âthe good ol ball and chainâ and âcanât live with her canât live without herâ down our throats like prospective foie gras.
but my love is gentle. it is patient. it is kind.
