poetryA collection of 41 posts

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.

You are not a burden.

You are tired—
not broken.

You are in need—
not too much.

You are still here—
That is triumph.

We ran for the running,
chased nothing,
won joy.

Grass-stained knees
Popsicle tongues
Palms full of gravel
and glory.

I was
a mom-shaped kid—
barefoot, loud,
rebecome.

And you—
you laughed
like you’d never stop.

I was a mother.
I was a wife.
I was—

—I was

The door clicks shut—
and I’m breathless air,
a question unasked, unformed.

The street rings under
unmoored heels; cobbles
like clenched teeth, grinding

the soft from me.
A map worn thin from refolding—
creased, unread, without origin.

I cradle my hollow
like it’s leaking—
not fragile, just uncontained.

The names I answered to
—drip⸺drip⸻drip
from fingertips like rainwater.

Past tense clings
to the back of my teeth—
future tense, stuck still.

I don’t yet know
what border will embrace me,
what soil will bear my weight.

For now, I’m motion,
not lost, not found looked for—

    just…

      …mercilessly…

                  …free…

In that fractured hour,
time cracked like a bone,
breath split sharp
between throat and bone—
each swell a surge,
dragging me under,
muscles clenched like fists,
knuckles white, tight,
my skin slick with salt
and sweat and surrender.

I lost language,
my tongue broken open,
words shattered
into murmurs, moans,
a feral rhythm, raw
as rush and crush and push,
rocking
through waves
that stole sense
and gave only
ache, relief,
then ache again.

Clock-hands spun,
time and I alike dilated—
fast, slow, relentless,
surrendered—
minutes molten,
dripping thick
as honey from
the hive, viscous,
biting down on pain
and promise, tangled
in my teeth—metallic
and sweet.

In the hush between
each hard crescendo,
I gasped half-prayers,
bargained with the dark—
please, not much longer—
then dove again,
headlong, helpless,
bones spreading wide,
unlocked and open,
breaking bare and beautiful
apart.

Hands held fast,
voices a soft net,
woven tight enough
to catch my trembling fall—
but only just.
I hovered at the brink,
raw, rooted
in the fierce now—
where fear and hope
split into two,
like we were parsed
into you and me.

Then sudden,
swift release—
your voice cracked
the quiet, bright
and wild as dawn
splintering darkness,
my breath rushing out
to meet yours
in a ragged cry
of relief, of joy,
of knowing
we were both born new—
me into a mother,
you into the world.