Apartment 4C

It smelled like wic recipes and lavender to cover the grief.

4C was cracked tile and prayers stuck in the grout.

Two babies sleeping in donated cribs,

their tiny breaths teaching me how to breathe again.

I left pieces of myself on that linoleum floor,

sweeping up glass from a past that refused to stop cutting,

but God—

God held my hands when they shook too hard to hold the broom.

In 4C, I learned how to move faster and further

in the slowest way possible—

one rent check,

one doctor’s appointment,

one whispered “we’ll be okay”

at a time.

And then—

months after I claimed this little cave of survival as mine,

I learned whose ghost was already living here.

This was her mother’s apartment.

Her mother—

the one who raised my best friend,

my best friend who left this world four years ago

just like her mother did before her.

And somehow,

all this time,

I’d been carrying my brokenness into a space

that already knew what loss was.

It’s like 4C was waiting for me—

to show me how grief and grace can live in the same walls.

How two babies’ laughter can echo against decades of tears

and still sound like a hymn.

4C didn’t save me.

But it remembered how.

Watched me tuck my children into hope every night,

even when my own hope was paper-thin.

And still—

every wall whispers:

the woman who rose

where others fell.

The mother who left it all in God’s hands

and found hers strong enough to build again.

And now I know why these walls feel so holy.

Because love never really leaves.

It just makes room

for the next soul

to keep going.

HEB Aisles

I cried yesterday

for the first time in what felt like forever.

Maybe a week.

Maybe two.

Grief has no clocks.

I walked through HEB—

just grabbing tortillas,

just passing apples—

and suddenly,

I was in the arms of something

that felt like home.

But not my home now.

The home I had in you.

Familiar.

Warm.

Gone.

You're a ghost now.

And worse—

you ghosted me.

It’s strange,

how I don’t cry daily anymore,

but the hurt still sleeps in my bones.

Some days it dreams loud enough

to wake me in tears.

Other days,

it’s just a whisper—

a scent,

a shelf,

a memory in the cereal aisle

saying:

"He loved you once."

“To My Sister, Who Never Needed to Speak to Be Heard”

for the girl I grew up with, fought with, and found again

We were born 18 months apart—

but it felt like we were twins sometimes.

One soul split in two bodies,

mine a little louder,

yours a little braver.

You were the dancer.

The wild one.

Tiny frame, sharp eyes, fists clenched—

always ready to fight for your space in the world.

I was the rule-follower.

The people-pleaser.

The girl who cried at the thought of getting in trouble.

You were fearless in a way I didn’t understand back then.

Or maybe not fearless—just unwilling to fold.

Even when the belt came down.

Even when his voice thundered.

Even when the world didn’t make space for a girl like you.

I stood still.

You ran.

I swallowed it all.

You spit it back.

And for that… you paid more than your share.

Dad’s anger didn’t just land on skin.

It planted itself in bones.

And still,

you carried the weight like a warrior with no armor,

just bruises that no one dared to ask about.

When you married him,

I knew what you were doing.

You weren’t running away.

You were choosing a cage you could understand.

At least that’s how it looked from the outside.

You never talk about it.

Not the pain.

Not the fear.

Not the slow kind of sadness that sinks into your eyes

when you think no one’s watching.

But I was.

I am.

You don’t say much.

But your silence is loud.

Your silence is screaming.

And I hear it now.

In every tightened jaw.

Every quick change of subject.

Every “I’m fine” that begs not to be questioned.

I didn’t hear it when we were young.

Because I was too busy being a good girl,

too busy being jealous,

too busy being angry that everyone loved you.

They still do.

You are a good time.

You’re a whole party in a five-foot frame.

You were adored—by strangers, friends, boys,

by me, secretly, painfully.

And I bullied you for it.

I didn’t know I was doing it.

Not until I saw that same look in your eyes

all these years later.

The same girl.

Still holding it in.

Still holding her breath.

That’s when I knew.

So I said it:

I’m sorry.

I was your bully.

And you forgave me with your eyes

before your mouth ever caught up.

We found each other again

not in words, but in the quiet that came after.

And now we speak in glances.

Finish each other’s sentences.

Call each other just to fill in the blanks—

the name we forgot,

the place we can’t quite remember,

the moment one of us misplaced.

We’re pieced together,

always handing each other back

what we didn’t even know we lost.

We are the same storm

with different names.

Same rage.

Same tenderness.

Same girl, mirrored backwards.

I know you won’t say it.

But I will.

You are hurt.

You are healing.

You are holy.

Even with your silence, you are singing.

And I hear every note.

I see you, sister.

Even when you hide.

Even when you harden.

You are not too far gone.

You are not too broken.

You are my sister.

And that means

you will always,

always

be home.

“This Ain’t Strength, It’s Survival”

I ain’t brave.

I’m cornered.

Three souls count on me

while mine hangs by a thread

that frays

every time I swallow

what I really wanna scream.

You call it strength?

I call it no damn choice.

I call it

crying in the shower

'cause that’s the only place

they can’t hear me

fall apart.

I’ve pawned peace

for grocery bills,

turned pain

into pancakes—

served up love

on chipped plates

like it didn’t cost me

my whole damn self.

I sat in rooms

with specialists and doctors,

nodding through their labels,

their charts,

while my heart broke

behind a clipboard smile.

They never see the after.

The nights I hold my child

like I can rewrite DNA

with just my arms.

Tell me I’m strong.

No.

I’m necessary.

I’m spit-up and scraped knees,

court dates and missed dreams,

and still—

still—

I show up.

Every.

Damn.

Day.

Messy bun.

Quiet rage.

And kids

who don’t know

I was dying

while I cooked their favorite meal

just so they’d feel safe.

And tomorrow?

I’ll do it all again.

Not 'cause I’m a hero.

But because they’re mine.

And I refuse to be the reason

they don’t believe in miracles.

FLY IF YOU MUST

I delivered my littlest love on autopilot.

Because when you're a mother, there's no "I can't."

No "I don't want to."

THERE IS ONLY: DO.

And we do.

We do it in the quiet.

We do it in the chaos.

We do it in the dark.

We do it alone.

We do it terrified.

We do it angry.

We do it shattered.

We do it sick.

We do it dying.

Sometimes—we don’t even know we’re doing it at all.

Mama didn’t know it yet,

but one day she’d soar.

And I did.

I did it in the quiet.

I did it in the chaos.

I did it in the dark.

I did it alone.

Terrified. Angry. So fucking sad.

I did it sick.

I did it dying.

And at one point—

I didn’t even know I was doing it at all.

Fly if you must.

But fly, Mama. Fly.