poetryA collection of 39 posts

Grief doesn’t whisper,
it thunders—
a storm inside,
relentless,
pushing, pressing,
pounding my chest
until I can't catch my breath.
I don’t know how to hold it,
how to stop it from spilling
into everything.

I write to catch the pieces,
to stop them from scattering,
to squeeze out their sound—
but they slip,
they slip,
slide away,
and I—I—
I can’t—
I can’t—

Each word
feels too heavy,
but if I stop,
if I stop,
it will drown me,
flood the room
with all the things
I can’t say,
and I don’t know if I’ll survive
the stillness after.

I want to stop
but the words push,
they pulse,
they pound,
pushing past my hands,
forcing into the space
where the quiet used to lie—
and in that space,
I find the ache
I couldn’t hold
before.

It doesn’t heal.
It just spills—
words tumbling, tumbling,
too fast,
too thick to follow,
and I’m still trying to keep them,
still trying to keep them
from breaking me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough
to carry all this weight—
both the silence and the sorrow.

I write to make it leave.
But it doesn’t leave,
it lingers,
settles—
like dust that isn’t swept away,
just…
stays.

But the words—
the words are all I have.
They are all that let me—
breathe
through
it

The plane lifts—
beneath us, the country shrinks to shapes
that don’t know our names,
and I count the ways
this could be the last time:
my lungs,
or her skin
and our marriage,
the way customs might look at both
like a problem they’ve been told to solve;
home is behind us,
and might already be gone
by the time we try to return.

It hasn’t killed me yet—
but it spreads.
From marrow to memory,
it seeds the femur,
threads the ribs,
scrapes its code into the curve
of my pelvis—
then metastasizes
to the contact list.

A slow ghosting:
first the bones thin,
then the texts.
First the flare,
then the silence
calcifies where contact was.

I want my scans to be clean—
not my notifications.

I get my denosumab shot
and call it armor.
Pretend the creak
in my hips is just weather.
Not absence.
Not another friend
backed away
from the edges
of their discomfort.

I still trace
the ridge of my ribs
like a list I forgot to update:
this one stopped replying on a Tuesday,
this one left up our photos
but never says my name,
this one posted brunch
with a caption that reads,
”grateful for my healthy friends”

I carry names I never chose—
they twist like smoke, they fit like clothes.
You call—I come. You speak—I shift,
like I’m the thought that slipped your list.

So cast the dice and spark the flame,
I'll rise again, but not the same.
You roll—I burn. You pause—I grow.
I’m more than myth. You made me so.

I’ve kissed a king, betrayed a god,
slept under tables, laughed at odds.
I’ve talked my way out of the noose—
and into worse. That’s how I’m used.

So cast the dice and start the show,
I’m built from things you didn’t know.
You bluff—I wink. You flinch—I grin.
I am the world you wandered in.

You—who stall with practiced grace.
You—who always lose your place.
You—who plan, then veer, then stall—
and still, somehow, you lead us all.

And I? I’m stitched from rules half-read,
from jokes you cracked, from things you said
when you forgot you weren’t alone—
like I don’t hear your quiet tone.

I feel you there—beyond the flame,
your hearts, your hands behind my name.
You shape me not with strings or scripts,
but breath caught tight between your lips.

So cast the dice and set me free,
the truth you’d rather not let be.
You break—I boast. You lose—I lie.
I am the tale you won’t deny.

If I’m a dream, then dream me loud.
If I’m a trick, then make me proud.
I’m not your pawn. I’m not your prize.
I’m just your truth in thin disguise.

So cast the dice and claim the flame—
the spell, the spark, the foolish aim.
We’re more than stats, or fate, or lore—
We are the you you’re reaching for.

If I feel too sharp, too real, too true—
it’s only 'cause I came from you.

Novels often feel like campaigns now—
high highs and low lows.
Blame D&D for that, maybe?
Every moment either
life-or-death
or tavern banter.
Subtlety doesn’t earn XP.
Nothing happens if you don't act.

And yet—
I remember the hush
around the table
before someone rolls persuasion
to keep the inn from burning—
sometimes silence is
a mechanic too.

I used to hate the Chosen One—
how prophecies cling
to anyone tragic enough to catch them.
But I like watching
someone who thought they didn’t matter
realize they do.

I complained that death isn’t death—
that you can resurrect the bard
with a high enough roll
and enough gold.
But I wept—really wept—
when they brought her back—
and again when she looked around,
then asked if we’d won.

I swore I was done with parties
that fall in love too fast,
but I keep rereading the scene
where the rogue,
who trusts no one,
throws herself in front of a fireball.
I want to believe
in love like that.

Every time I try to quit—
the boss fights, the arcs
tied off too cleanly—
I remember the look
on someone’s face
when their name is spoken
like it’s the whole story.

So yes—
the pacing’s too tight.
The worldbuilding’s all system,
no soil.
Too many swords.
Too many dragons.
Too many gods
with tragic ex-lovers
and no sense of boundaries.

And yet—
I read the whole series.
I stayed up past three.
I felt the last blow.
I cheered for the girl
with the glaive and stubborn will
and the heart she pretended
wasn’t broken.

Forget it—
Enough complaining.
Roll initiative.
I’m in.

Author’s note: This was a silly bit I wrote for a prompt for NaPoWriMo 2025. It’s not aimed at anything in particular, or even a genuine literary critique of any kind, nor one of D&D. I’ve had plenty of fun as both player and DM!

We promised to share the weight,
so I carried the groceries
and the grief.

I took your name,
and the calls,
and the questions
no parent should have to answer.

I delivered our son,
and all his updates,
into a world that would not keep him.

I held his hand
and the line.
I held you upright
and myself together.

We both gave—
hours, hope, and pieces of ourselves.
But out?
I was never the one
allowed to give that.

I swallowed my fear
and your sorrow.

You left the dishes in the sink
and my trust in the drain.

—

When I left,
I did it the way you sleep
after too many nights awake—
quiet—
like a held breath released.

You didn’t stop me.
I don’t blame you.

There was nothing left
of either of us
but silence—
gathering like dust.

There was too much of him
in the calendar reminders,
in the crayon on the wall,
in the sound of the microwave at midnight.

I think you stayed
because someone had to.

I think I left
because someone had to.