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the dialect my heart understands
love wears many dialects—soft-spoken words that settle into the quiet chambers of the heart, acts of service offered like whispered prayers, time gifted as though it were a rare, endangered thing, small tokens slipped into waiting hands as if to say i see you. but mine is not sewn from distance. mine is the language
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the beautiful mess of love
love is not a clean thing. it is not polite or predictable or poised—it is not soft petals in a vase on a sunlit table with matching chairs and tidy smiles. no, love is much wilder than that. love is undone hair and trembling hands and loud hearts that beat out of sync until, somehow,
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the anatomy of an apology
“i’ve always been quick to forgive—not because i’m naïve, but because i know how heavy it is to carry hurt. but don’t mistake my softness for access. forgiveness, to me, is not a blank check—it’s a mirror. it reflects your choices, your willingness to own them, and your capacity to change. i don’t need perfect
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the soft hours
“life isn’t always loud—most of it whispers. and if you slow down enough, you’ll hear how beautiful it’s always been.” i wrote a post not too long ago about my mother—how i didn’t understand her reheated coffee until i became her in a way. how the cup would sit forgotten on the counter while the
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the kind of beautiful i want to be
“at first, i only wanted to be wildly beautiful in looks—but now, i want to be beautiful in how i stay,how i love, how i rise, how i bloom.” i only ever wanted to be beautiful in looks. it was the first kind of safety i recognized, the first kind of praise the world offered
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you are the quiet kind of beautiful
“you are not beautiful because you are unbroken. you are beautiful because you stayed soft in the places life tried to ruin.” you. yes, you. the way you have carried your pain without turning it into harm. the way you have chosen healing over hiding, softness over silence. that is where your beauty begins. not
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life, unedited: no ribbons. no resolve. just breath and becoming.
“life doesn’t always come with clarity or meaning. sometimes it’s just surviving the day, breathing through the static, and finding beauty in the smallest, quietest things. this isn’t about lessons—it’s about the sacred mess of still being here.” life doesn’t always arrive in poetry. sometimes it’s just—hard. not tragic, not dramatic. just the kind of
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Whispered Words | thtgrlinbloom, 🌻 