It’s 3 a.m. again. The kitchen is dim, the light overhead flickering like it's unsure whether to stay or go. The fridge hums a low, persistent drone, a lullaby for the lonely, and somewhere on the counter, a spoon rests in a bowl smeared with something half-eaten, half-forgotten. You're sitting barefoot on the tiled floor, knees pulled close, a glass of water sweating in your hand. It’s lukewarm now. You haven’t spoken in hours—not out loud, at least—but your mind is loud enough for both of you. This room has seen breakdowns more intimate than love. This is where the unravelling always begins.

There’s a kind of magic in how pain returns—familiar, like an old song in a new key. You remember how they left. You remember how you let them. The grief takes shapes here: in the breath you hold, the names you whisper, the silence you offer in place of explanations. Rage simmers on the backburner. Memory sharpens. These poems were not made to console. They are the static between stations, the bruise pressed too long, the scream caught behind teeth. They are everything you wanted to say but only found the words for too late.

These are the spaces where my voice once lived.

Released May 16, 2025.