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 are the moon pulling oceans
and the velvet dusk before first frost.
You are the scent of cardamom in warm milk,
the press of thighs in candlelight.
You are not late.
You are not too much.
You are not wrong.

You are exactly the storm I’d beg to drown in.

And when you feel ugly,
know this.
The things you hate about yourself
are the very parts I would trace first.
Slowly.
Without rush.
With lips tuned to reverence.

You are art no one ever finished.
A song with a secret chord.
A body that deserves champagne after crying,
and kisses that don’t ask you to explain your sadness.

I want you spoiled.
I want you fed.
I want you wrecked and radiant,
laughing while the tears still cling to your lashes.

I want to make you breakfast in the late afternoon
because you were too busy coming all morning
to get out of bed.

But more than that,
I want to be your place.
The one you return to
when the world forgets
how rare you are.

Let this be your silk lined letter.
Your private indulgence.
Your proof that someone, somewhere,
knows.

You are a storm worth worshipping.
A temple with velvet walls.
A flame I’d gladly burn for.

So curl up with this when it’s cold.
Bleed with it.
Laugh with it.
Let it ruin you a little.

And know,
this is yours.
Always was.
Always will be.