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devil’s well trail
yesterday, i woke weary from another night of little rest. i had drifted asleep on the couch beside my boyfriend, his presence softening the sharp edges of the night, his warmth keeping the dark from feeling so heavy. morning came slow, spilling light through the windows, and i rose to go wake my wife. i
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always, us.
love is not a line drawn straight, it is a circle, endless, widening, reaching further each time it beats. i love three. orange belongs to my girlfriend. she is wildfire, untamed and alive, her energy spilling into every space i let her touch. her laughter is the kind that lingers, echoing in the bones, the
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the weight of nightmares
there is a peculiar cruelty in the way nightmares grip us, how they arrive without invitation, pulling us into rooms built from shadow, turning familiar faces into strangers and safe places into cages. they are architects of unease, weaving memory with fear, longing with loss, truth with distortion, until we no longer know what is
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where the sunset met me
“i am not waiting for permission anymore—i am blooming anyway, wild and unapologetic, in the glow of sunset.” good morning, darling. last night, i stood in the arms of the sunset and let it undo me. the horizon split open with gold, bled into rose, and sank into violet shadows, and i swear the whole
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the shadow that changed me
“between the ache and the addiction,between the bitter and the broken,i am learning that even in ruins,a wildflower can bloom.” “as i sit here…” it was just shy of 12:30 this morning when i started writing that line, restless and aching. four hours later, i finally closed my eyes after talking with my best friend
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strength in connection: unlearning the firm hand
“true strength is not in the firmness of your hand, but in the depth of your connection.” so many men were raised beneath the weight of a firm hand. they were taught that strength meant hardness, that control meant silence, and that love was something to be rationed. they grew up in households where affection
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a beautiful mind in the shadow of survival
there is a moment in a beautiful mind when john nash, torn between brilliance and torment, chooses to live with his hallucinations instead of against them. he learns to walk alongside them, to make peace with the noise that will never fully quiet. it is not triumph in the neat sense—there is no magic cure,
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Whispered Words | thtgrlinbloom, 🌻 