For Her Who Feels Too Much

and Never Enough

There you are again—
folded between the hours,
not quite morning, not quite night,
hair undone, mood undone,
wondering if the world ever really saw you.

It did.
I do.

I see the way you vanish just before you break.
The way your eyes still dare to glow
even when your lips forget how to ask for softness.
And when you curse your body—
for bleeding, for aching, for needing more than it’s given—
I bless it.
Every inch.
Every swell.
Every sigh you think is too much.

They praised your beauty in passing.
You’ve been admired.
But never read like scripture.

Most men want your body.
I wanted your silence,
your unraveling.

These aren’t just words.
They’re a confession dressed in velvet.
But I listen differently.

You are the kind of woman
who slows time in silk robes.
The kind whose laughter makes seasons turn early.
The kind who blushes when she's angry,
and moans when she's healing—
without meaning to.

So, if today hurt,
if the mirror was unkind,
if your jeans didn’t fit and your friends forgot to ask,
read this again.
If your blood made you feel hollow,
if your cravings made you feel crazy,
if you missed a version of yourself you used to be—
read this again.

Because you’re not falling apart.
You’re being remade.

You needed to hear that, didn’t you?

→ come see what I’d say if I could whisper it against your skin.