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  • the goodbye never came. no slammed door, no final fight, no note left behind. just silence, thick and steady, like fog on a morning you thought would be clear. if silence were a person, it would look like you on that last day. eyes already gone somewhere else. hands in your pockets like they were…

    if your silence could speak

a running record of trying to understand what it means to live inside a body that remembers everything. poems about religion, doubt, desire, shame, and the strange ache of becoming. i grew up believing in something holy and i’m still sorting through what it left behind.

new poems appear here whenever something asks to be understood. follow for more.

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