Lit From Within

The fire that made her lingers beneath her ribs— an ember never dying, a heart forever lit from within.

The Writer as Exorcist

Writing is an exorcism.

Each room, the lights turned off. It’s habit—a faint closeness, my father’s lesson. I never told him God left them on all night for me.

Both live in me. One leaps toward passion, the other toward peace.

I savor their smooth, enchanting feel as I delicately pull more from the white basket, whispering them through my fingers.

Her compositions heal the spirit, bless the soul, and awaken the human. Every chant carries light and devotion.

I curl up in our cedar nest, feathered and dreaming—washed in obsidian night, I fly to You, always.

I carry my father still. His absence weighs— a ghost in my chest, sorrow and relief entwined, a delicate dance.

Vibrant blue became our value true. Cornflowers, bachelor’s buttons, trumpet blooms held between our palms, pressed for all their softness.

The hurt still sings— a haunted thing awake in me.