Floetry From the Heart

  They say, hurt people hurt people and I believe them. But the question that gnaws me hollow is this: why do I keep choosing me as the target? I don’t throw fists, don’t spit venom, but I’ve learned to bruise myself in quieter ways. Like cutting sunlight out of my own sky, like shoving daggers into my own reflection with words sharpened by shame. I tell the mirror stories that are half lies, half curses, and I swallow them whole because the echo in my head still carries my mother’s silence her absence, her stillness that screamed louder than any slap. And my father’s rage the kind that made walls tremble and left me convinced love was a battlefield I’d never survive. So I became my own executioner. I set fires in my chest just to watch my peace burn. I build bridges with trembling hands only to strike the match before my feet dare step forward. Every time I try to hold myself, I let go first. I hand out love recklessly, emptying pockets that were ne...

“Beyond the Veil” I don’t just see your face, I see the silence between your breaths, the tremor in your hands you hide when the world is watching. I see the wars you never declared, the scars stitched quiet under your smile, the places where laughter tries to cover what never healed. I see you beyond the veil of casual conversations, past the hurt that taught you to build walls, beyond even the joy you hold like a lantern in a storm. I see the fractures that let light leak out, the midnight thoughts that don’t have names, the moments you almost drowned but chose to rise. Your soul hums like a hymn too ancient for language, a music older than pain, resonating in the quiet rhythm of your eyes. And it’s beautiful. Not the kind of beauty they sell in windows or magazines, but the kind born of surviving, the kind that bends but does not break, the kind that sings even when the throat is dry with sorrow. I don’t see perfection. I see something truer the raw and unpolished, the s...

I owe myself an apology. For every discount I gave away like clearance tags on my soul. For letting people cross oceans with my heart in their hands, while they wouldn’t even leap a puddle for me. I am sorry... for the nights I forgot my worth, for the days I folded my shine to fit inside someone else’s shadow, for thinking love meant less of me, just so someone else could feel like more. But listen... I am not standing in that same reflection anymore. Now, I breathe in self-love so deep it echoes through my bones. Beyond each breath, I feel grace cradle me, like God himself whispered, “Daughter, your worth was never a bargain bin.” Now I love myself with a fierceness that needs no permission, no applause, no receipt. I give myself time to heal in the right places, with patience, with intention, so when love does arrive, it won’t be counterfeit. It will be the kind of love that mirrors the way I finally learned to love me ... richly, fully, without condition. I walk different now. Not ...

We speak in the language of breath, the short syllables between heartbeats ... your palm an atlas, mapping the small of my spine, your fingers bookmarking the places I forget exist. You do not beg for entry; you command it, and my yes is a fuse I light with my own mouth. Leather sighs. Rope sings. Our room is a cathedral of focused intent, lit by low moons of skin. Grip: measured. Gaze: deliberate. Every inch of authority you offer is an invitation I answer with knees that remember how to bend. The world outside thins to a single taut line ... your voice pulling me along it like a tide. I taste your decisions on my tongue ... salt and smoke and a promise I can’t refuse. My heartbeat is a drum under your thumbs, and you play it raw and honest until the rhythm makes me ache. There is ritual here: calibration of pain and pleasure, consent folded like prayer, the sacred countdown of limits named and honored. You place my edges like candles on a map, and I b...