I must strongly object to the pervasive and deeply problematic use of militaristic metaphors when discussing cancer and the individuals affected by it. Phrases that have become deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon—”They are a cancer survivor,” “They lost their battle,” or “They won their battle”—carry a harmful and often painful subtext. This war-like language, framing a biological process as a personal combat, inevitably implies that the outcome—survival or death—is purely a result of the individual’s effort, willpower, or “fighting spirit.”
This is not a purely academic critique; it is profoundly personal. My mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, and she passed away when I was just eleven years old. To this day, every time I hear this kind of terminology used, I feel a visceral, sickening dread. The devastating implication embedded in these phrases suggests that to say someone “lost the battle” can be interpreted as meaning my mother didn’t fight hard enough to live, or that her will to survive was somehow weaker than that of those who are deemed “survivors.” This places a moral judgment on a medical outcome.The Inaccuracy and Cruelty of the Narrative
This narrative is not only insensitive; it is medically inaccurate and inherently cruel. It functions to shift the blame for a biological failure onto the shoulders of the patient. Cancer is a complex, brutal, and often indiscriminate disease, not a fair fight where sheer determination dictates the victor. Its progression and the efficacy of its treatment are dictated by a multitude of factors entirely outside a patient’s control:
Genetics and Biology: The specific mutation, the tumor’s aggressiveness, and the patient’s individual biological response to therapy are paramount.
Access to Care: Socioeconomic factors, proximity to specialized medical centers, insurance coverage, and the ability to afford necessary care play a critical, often life-determining, role.
Effectiveness of Treatment: The simple fact is that current medical science does not have a cure for every cancer, and sometimes the best available treatments fail.
To suggest that a patient’s sheer willpower can overcome these biological and systemic realities is a dangerous and emotionally devastating distortion. It is a form of victim-blaming that compounds the suffering of the patient.Diminishing Suffering and Compounding Grief
By labeling those who succumb to the disease as “losers” of a “battle,” we perform a profound injustice. We diminish the incredible suffering they endured, invalidate the immense strength and endurance they did exhibit through grueling treatments, and unnecessarily compound the grief of their loved ones. This language creates a false, black-and-white dichotomy where survival is heralded as a victory of spirit and death is tragically mischaracterized as a personal failure of will.
It is vital that we consciously and collectively adopt a more compassionate, realistic, and respectful vocabulary. We need a language that acknowledges the brutal reality of the disease without assigning moral or personal failure to those whose bodies, despite their strongest will and every medical intervention, could not withstand it.
We should move away from the language of war and toward the language of support, journey, and resilience. We should focus on:
Supporting individuals through their medical and emotional experience.
Celebrating their resilience and the strength they demonstrate in facing a severe illness.
Respecting the outcome of a fight that was never on even terms.
A Broader Call for Linguistic Change
The “battle language” is not confined only to cancer; it is pervasive throughout the medical community and public discourse when discussing many chronic or life-threatening illnesses. We see individuals “fighting” heart disease, “struggling” with addiction, or “conquering” mental illness. This pattern of militaristic framing needs to be fundamentally changed within the medical community, journalistic reporting, and everyday conversation.
Moving forward, our goal must be to foster a vocabulary that recognizes the complex interplay of biology, medicine, and human endurance, a vocabulary that is rooted in empathy rather than judgment. We must honor the full spectrum of human experience with illness—the strength, the pain, the medical realities, and the dignity—without defaulting to a cruel metaphor that punishes the dead and pressures the living.
The Uneven Field
The words are heavy, like a soldier’s gear, But she was not a general or a scout. I was eleven, drowning in a fear That militaristic metaphors leave out.
They call it a “battle,” a “war” to be won, A “fight” where the spirit must lead. But what of the mother, the work left undone, When the body is all that can bleed?
If survival is victory, what is the grave? A “loss”? A “failure” of will? To say that she “lost” is to say she wasn’t brave, That her heart wasn’t ready to thrill.
But biology isn’t a “fair-weather” friend, And cells do not listen to “fight.” It’s genetics and access that dictate the end, Not how hard she gripped for the light.
I carry the “visceral dread” in my bones, The “sickening” weight of the phrase. The “victim-blaming” in hushed, somber tones That haunts all my motherless days.
She didn’t “lose.” She simply endured A “journey” no armor could shield. A “resilience” that never was truly assured On such an uneven field.
Take back the metaphors, sharpen the tongue, Find “compassion” instead of the “sword.” For the girl who was eleven, whose world was unstrung, By a “battle” she couldn’t afford.
The ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat, Where worlds are born and shadows meet. For ten long years, the stories have grown, In quiet rooms and the great unknown— From the dark of the woods to the stars above, Built with a decade of labor and love.
There is a lightning strike in the chest When a character finally stands the test, When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key And the soul of the book is finally free. I know these bones, I know they are strong, I’ve carried these voices for far too long.
But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea, Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see. I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars, I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars. I stand at the window, my hands on the glass, Watching the world and the witnesses pass.
“Look here,” I whisper, “the bridge is now built, Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt.” I know it is good—I have felt the fire burn, I’ve earned every chapter and every sharp turn. The thrill is the making, the joy is the craft, But the hope is the reader on this lonely raft.
So I’ll keep on shouting into the dark, Fanning the ember and chasing the spark. For the stories are ready, the gates are ajar, Waiting for someone to see who we are.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve dedicated the past decade of my life to the creation of the Shadow Realm series. What started as a passion project has blossomed into a six-book chronicle, with the highly anticipated final installment, book #6, scheduled for release in March of this year.
Reflecting on the journey of writing this series, one of the most striking things is how much my process and style have evolved. When I look back at the early drafts, the development in my chapter structure is particularly noticeable. I attribute a significant part of this evolution to my time writing on platforms like Wattpad. Initially, influenced by the common reader preference there, I tended to write much shorter chapters. However, as the story of the Shadow Realm deepened and my confidence as a writer grew, I shifted my focus. Now, I write exactly as much as the narrative demands, allowing the story’s pace and character development to dictate the length, rather than adhering to a preconceived limit. This change has truly allowed the books to breathe and has resulted in a richer reading experience for my audience.
To celebrate the conclusion of the main series, I am thrilled to announce a special promotion for the next month. The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve, which serves as an excellent entry point into the series or a beloved prequel for long-time readers, will be available as a free e-book across various platforms. I encourage both new and existing readers to take advantage of this offer as we count down to the release of the final book.
Take a look at the first few chapters of the Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve
Chapter 1 The Great War
Many years ago, darkness tore apart the worlds. They called it the Great War, for it was massive and involved all the realms of each world. Enemies on either side grew their armies for battle with heavy casualties. New allies formed out of this bloodshed while old ones crumbled.
The world of the Faye changed forever as their king descended into madness. His name was Julian. He once was a loving ruler, but those times were long gone. The pages written of him now are full of rage, blood, and hatred. Hatred for his children who grew to love others and revolt against him and his rule. Hatred for his wife, who fled with his children and hatred for all the realms that were not under his rule. Julian needed his children because they were powerful. Each one controlled one of the four elements: wind, water, earth, and fire. Even though his children hated what he had become, they remembered the good in him and were perhaps the only ones besides their mother who did.
Marius, the leader of the vampires and Jonathan, the ruler of The Shadow Realm, fought alongside Julian, but they did not trust him. Each of these three men was scheming against each other as they all wanted to come out the victor.
Jonathan had many plans and plots forming in his head, but they all revolved around Maeve. Maeve was a fairy, but she lived in a quiet world. The one world that was protected from the Great War. Jonathan didn’t care what Julian or Marius did as long as it didn’t interfere with his plan but interfere was what they did best. Jonathan had great plans for Maeve and her family, but he knew little of her connections to Julian’s family.
The Great War might have been over, but another one was looming in the distance, and it all began with a lonely mother named Maeve.
Chapter 2 The Lonely Mother
Maybe the stress of having a baby was getting to Hunter. He never had much attention from his own family, and when he met Maeve, she gave him so much love and attention. My life was better without Alex. He is stealing Maeve from me. Maybe he thought having a baby wouldn’t change things, but it did. Maeve was always taking care of Alex. Feeding him, bathing him, changing him, and burping him. When she wasn’t caring for him, she was telling Hunter the things Alexander did. I hate this. I lost my wife to a baby.
He lied to Maeve and told her he had to work on a case. Sometimes he said he was meeting colleagues, other times clients. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t meeting anyone.
Hunter went to a bar. He sat looking at the mirror across from him as he drank. There must be more. My life should be better than this.
That night Maeve was making dinner as normal waiting on Hunter. She sighed as she stirred the pot of soup. Where could he be? She always wondered where he was. She never believed his lies. Another meeting. He must think I’m stupid. Her heart sank as she thought of what he was doing. Maybe he found another woman. Could he be cheating on me? The thought killed Maeve. She bit the inside her lip to stop herself from crying. Where did I go wrong? Is it my fault?
Alex started crying. Maeve turned the stove off and removed the soup from the heat before tending to Alex. “Is someone hungry?” she asked, as she prepared a bottle.
She heard a sound coming from her front yard. It was as if the wind was carrying her name. She couldn’t turn away.
Maeve walked to the door and opened it as Alexander continued to cry. The wind carried her name through the trees, and it was getting closer and closer. Then it stopped. Maeve woke from this trance standing in her doorway. She wondered why she was standing there. She shook her head, feeling confused and bewildered.
Alexander’s cries continued to grow louder. Maeve realized he must have been crying for a while by then and wondered why she didn’t attend to him sooner. She closed the door and locked it. Then turned to Alex. “Shh, Mommy’s here.” She picked him up and rocked him for a moment before sitting on the couch to feed him.
Alex cooed in her arms as she fed him. Maeve couldn’t help but smiled as he yawned in her arms, but Maeve was far from happy.
“Oh, Alex, what did I do wrong?” She woke up every two hours to care for Alex. During the day, she tried to clean and cook. She went through life in a trance. Is this my life cleaning, cooking, and caring for Alex? Is this my life? Does Hunter still love me? Maeve cried as she held Alex. As much as she tried to fight the tears, she couldn’t. She knew she was losing Hunter. He was slipping away from her.
The voice came back again. I must be crazy. The voice was so soft and sweet. It beckoned to her to come.
“Maeve. Maeve. Come, my love,” the voice called to her.
Maeve picked up Alex and set him back in the bassinet. She then walked to the door and opened it. The night air hit her face, but it didn’t wake her from her trance. The voice was closer now, and it continued to come closer as it traveled through the air. The closer the voice got, the colder the air became.
A milky mist formed along the tree line. Maeve watched as the mist began to form what resembled a man. He moved toward her. Run, Maeve. Close the door, lock it. Scream, run, Maeve. But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she had the strange urge to please this man. The closer he got to her, the more she wanted to please him. A smile came across her face. He’ll make everything better. He will make me happy. I can make him happy. Why am I thinking about these things? Run, Maeve!
“Hello, Maeve,” he said, with a sinister smile.
Chapter 3 Marius
After a while, Maeve could speak. “How do you know me?”
Marius took her hands in his. “They wrote your name long ago, my dear. You will be a great power. One people will fear.”
Maeve flinched as he held her hands; they were freezing. She could see her breath but not his. Was he breathing? He smiled, and to Maeve, his smile was captivating. She smiled back.
“Come, Maeve. You are an especially important woman.”
Maeve didn’t think she was important, so the words made her proud. She wondered how she could be important, but it didn’t matter. She loved the attention and care he was giving her, but it was more than that. Maeve had no control. Alex cried, and she needed to care for him. Her heart knew what she needed to do, but her body didn’t move. Inside she was crying for her son, but there she was standing with this man. I need to get to Alex, but why can’t I move?
Her hands trembled in his. “Please, my son.”
Marius smiled. “You won’t care for him much longer.”
He moved her hair away from her neck and kissed it. No! I love my son.
Maeve moaned as he kissed her. It had been so long since Hunter was affectionate to her. He never touched her anymore. She wanted to pull this man close. She couldn’t understand the connection she felt to him.
He whispered, “Shh, save your heart. There is another who longs for you.”
Maeve didn’t understand, but she woke from her trance. “Alex!” She knew she needed to turn and run from this man.
As Maeve turned, Marius grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him, causing bruising on her arms. This time he didn’t kiss her neck. Instead, he bit her. He sank his teeth into her neck and feasted on her blood.
Maeve screamed and tried to fight. As the pain of the bite wore off, her body filled with warmth. She moaned as her body ached for more. The pain was erotic and sensual. She didn’t understand how, but she craved more of it. He continued to drain her as she held onto him.
Marius laid her on the ground as he drained her. He stood over her and admired his work as he wiped her blood from his lips. Maeve laid on the ground, motionless. Her eyes were wide open as she stared off into the woods. Her skin was white and striking compared to her bright red hair.
He knelt next to her. “I will call upon you again to finish our business, my dear.” With that, he left her and walked into the woods.
Maeve could see and hear everything that was going on, but she couldn’t move. She watched as Marius turned into mist, and then the mist floated into the woods.
Chapter 4 Hunter Returns
The humid air hung heavy and still as, a few hours past midnight, a visibly intoxicated Hunter swayed precariously along the uneven, dirt road leading back to his secluded cabin. The alcohol dulled his senses but couldn’t entirely mask a sudden, piercing sound that cut through the silence. As he neared the familiar outline of his small home, the sound resolved into Alexander’s cries—not the usual fussy wails, but a frantic, ear-splitting scream of pure terror.
A cold jolt of adrenaline momentarily sobered Hunter. Where is Maeve? The question slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Why wasn’t she inside, soothing their son? Why was the silence from the porch so absolute? Ignoring the drunken lurch in his legs, he broke into a clumsy run, his boots pounding the long, well-trodden path toward the cabin.
He rounded the corner, his eyes searching the dim outline of the porch. The world tilted.
There was Maeve.
She wasn’t sitting, or even leaning against the railing. She was sprawled on the rough wooden planks, utterly still. Her eyes were unnervingly wide open, fixed in a glassy, vacant stare aimed not at the house, or him, but off into the deep, oppressive darkness of the surrounding woods.
“Maeve!” he bellowed, the sound ragged with sudden, stark fear. He stumbled onto the porch, dropping to his knees beside her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands shaking violently, and tried to force her gaze back to him. “Maeve! Oh my God, what happened?” His voice cracked, the question an accusation flung at the empty night.
He carefully gathered her limp body into his arms and carried her across the threshold and into the relative gloom of the cabin. He laid her gently onto the tattered living room couch. It was only as the light from the small oil lamp caught her pale skin that the truth, ugly and terrifying, became apparent.
Her neck was slick with a significant amount of blood.
Hunter’s breath hitched. He tentatively touched the sticky warmth, his fingers coming away crimson. He rushed, propelled by sheer panic, to the small, rudimentary kitchen area and retrieved a clean cloth. He soaked it with cool water from the bucket and hurried back.
With trembling hands, he began to meticulously clean the wound on her neck. As the blood was washed away, two distinct, dark puncture holes became sickeningly visible—small, neat, and impossibly deep.
What in the world? His mind screamed, a chaos of non-sequiturs. So much blood. What do I do? The sight of the clean, precise wounds did not compute with any injury he knew. The sheer volume of blood suggested a terrible, lethal assault.
Struggling to rationalize the impossible, Hunter clung to the only medical concept he knew. She’s in shock. I can warm her. He pulled the heaviest, scratchiest blanket he could find over her motionless body. Then, determined to restore some semblance of normalcy, he put the kettle on the wood stove to make hot tea.
While the water slowly heated, Hunter forced himself to address the piercing cries from the back room. He went to check on Alex. The infant was beside himself, screaming until his tiny face was crimson. Hunter competently changed the soiled diaper and gave him a bottle of lukewarm milk.
“Shh, it’s ok. Mommy will be fine,” he murmured, rocking the distressed infant close to his chest. The familiar scent of baby powder and milk was a temporary anchor in the churning storm. He finally managed to soothe the baby and set him back into his bassinet.
Next, Hunter turned his attention to the cold, damp cabin. He walked outside, retrieving a large armload of firewood, and returned to build a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, desperately hoping the radiating warmth would penetrate Maeve’s unnatural chill.
The heat eventually seemed to register. Soon after, Maeve stirred. A low, ragged moan of pain escaped her lips; her neck throbbed viciously, and a profound, bone-deep weakness—the crippling result of blood loss—left her feeling impossibly heavy.
“Hunter,” she managed, her voice a dry rasp, as she struggled feebly to shift her weight. I must tell him what it was. The knowledge of the attacker, the nature of the attack, was a crushing burden she needed to share.
Hunter spun around, seeing her struggle, and rushed to her side. He had been having an agonizingly rough time adjusting to the tectonic shift in their lives with the arrival of a baby. The sleepless nights, the relentless demands on Maeve’s attention, and the crushing weight of new responsibility had led him to withdraw, to seek solace in the bottle. But that withdrawal, that stupidity, didn’t mean he didn’t love them. He loved Alex. He loved Maeve. Desperately.
“Don’t move,” he instructed gently, sitting beside her. He was desperate for her to speak, to shed some light on the horrifying event. He tentatively felt her forehead, surprised to find her skin was still unnervingly cold, like marble. “Please drink this.” He helped her raise herself just enough to take a careful sip of the hot tea. He then leaned down and kissed her on her forehead—a gesture that had always been a guarantee of comfort and connection between them.
This time, Maeve felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if the simple, loving gesture had been performed on a stranger.
A terrible, gut-wrenching realization hit Hunter: he was losing her. He had been ignoring her, wallowing in his self-pity and jealousy ever since Alex came, and now… now he was losing her forever. He sank back down next to her on the couch, his hand reaching for hers, intertwining their fingers.
“Maeve, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words choked with sudden, overwhelming regret.
She looked up at him, her eyes clouded. Why does he care now? The thought was a painful sliver of ice in her mind.
His hands wrapped tightly around the teacup she was still holding. “Maeve, I know I have been awful,” he admitted, the admission tasting like ash. He moved his hands away from hers to scrub furiously at his eyes. Hunter, a proud and stubborn man, found admitting his faults an agonizing struggle.
“Alex… you love him so much and,” he sighed, the sound heavy with his burden, “I thought you loved him more than me.”
As much as Maeve’s soul cried out to respond, to reassure him, to articulate her lingering love, she couldn’t. Her will was paralyzed. She looked on helplessly as he wept. A sinister, psychic control—the insidious grip of Marius—had clamped down on her. She fought it with every last ounce of her vanishing strength, but the fight was futile. She was locked within her own body.
She longed to show Hunter, with a touch or a word, how much she still adored him. But she could not move. She could not speak. The only manifestation of her internal agony was a single, perfect tear that formed in the corner of her eye and tracked a slow path down her pale temple.
Watching this solitary tear, Hunter finally realized the terrifying depth of the emotional distance he had created, the extent to which he had hurt Maeve.
“I’m so sorry, my darling. I can’t understand it myself,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. “Maeve, my jealousy over the love and the deep, instantaneous connection you and he had—it pushed me away. It was my fault. I can see how you look at him and hold him. He took the attention you gave me, and I resented him for it. I miss our connection. Please tell me it’s not too late.”
Maeve’s hand, rigid and cold, managed to curl weakly around his. She looked at him—a pleading, desperate look—but still, she could not speak.
Hunter, mistaking her terrifying paralysis for the lingering effects of physical and emotional shock, tried to reassure himself. It must be the shock of whatever happened to her. He tried to shift his focus, determined to figure out what monstrous thing had attacked her.
He helped her rise and led her into the bathroom, where he carefully undressed her. He helped her into a set of warm, soft pajamas. The cabin was small, and there was no fireplace in their tiny bedroom. Instead, he carried her out and settled her in the most comfortable, cushioned chair in the living room, directly in front of the blazing hearth.
“I will get the bed ready and keep the fire going. You’re freezing,” he promised, his voice now gentle and focused. He draped a thick blanket over her before turning to prepare a makeshift bed. He added more wood to the fire, ensuring a fierce heat, and grabbed every clean blanket from the bedroom closet.
He dismantled the living room couch, removing the thin cushions and pulling out the surprisingly solid mattress within. He then laid a heavy, warm blanket directly onto the mattress. Finally, he lifted Maeve from the chair—she felt impossibly light—and moved her onto the makeshift bed. He covered her with a mountain of warm blankets, hoping to finally drive the deadly chill from her bones.
With the fire roaring and Maeve somewhat settled, Hunter picked up Alex again. The infant had begun to stir in his bassinet. He changed the baby with an uncharacteristic tenderness.
“Mommy is sick, and we have to do a better job of caring for her,” he told the baby.
The infant cooed responsively, a small, trusting sound. It was the first time Alex had shown Hunter such prolonged, focused attention. In that moment, Hunter realized with shattering clarity that his resentment had been misdirected. The fault lay with him, not with this innocent child. Alex loved him, and as he spoke to the baby, Hunter realized how deep his own paternal love was. Alex listened to every word Hunter said and watched every movement he made. The baby’s little hands reached out toward Hunter’s mouth as he spoke.
“I should have paid more attention to you,” Hunter whispered, a tear of true realization wetting his cheek. He smiled, a genuine smile, and laughed softly as Alex cooed at him.
From the makeshift bed, Maeve let out a soft, pain-filled moan in her fitful sleep. Hunter looked at her, then back at his son. He knew what he had to do now to keep his little family together. He had to fight for them.
“Alex, it’s time for bed,” he said, laying the baby down. “Maybe one day Mommy and I can give you a brother or sister,” he added with a hopeful, gentle smile.
He laid Alex in the bassinet and touched his cheek. “Good night, little boy. Daddy loves you.”
Hunter went to the bedroom to change into his own pajamas. Just as he was pulling on a shirt, the voice returned. It was cold, commanding, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Maeve’s eyes snapped open. The vacancy was gone, replaced by a terrible, unnatural servitude. “Yes, Master,” she called out, the words perfectly articulated, though stripped of her own personality. She had been fighting the mental control, resisting the insidious lure of the voice and the hunger, but hearing him speak directly to her was too much for her weakened will.
Maeve rose from the bed with a stiff, unnatural movement and walked toward the front door. Her skin, already pale, had turned a chilling, translucent white.
“Open the door, my dear, and invite me into your home,” the voice instructed, echoing from just outside the cabin.
Maeve unlocked the door, her eyes wide open and unblinking, fixed on the wood. “Yes, Master, enter.”
Marius, dark and impossibly handsome, strode over the threshold, his presence sucking the air from the small room.
“My dear, you look so pale,” he said with a cruel smile. “I know what you need.” He had deliberately waited, allowing several hours to pass since the initial attack, knowing that her body would now be consumed by a frantic, life-or-death craving. She would require his blood to survive the transition. He didn’t just want her to drink; he wanted her to lust for his blood. He wanted her to be a slave to her own new, desperate hunger.
“Your poor husband has no clue,” he sneered, glancing toward the back of the cabin. “You are mine now.” He extended his arm, displaying the prominent veins beneath the skin. “Drink, my dear, for it will help you.”
Maeve fought, a silent, internal scream. She tried to invoke the memory of Hunter and Alex, to break the trance, but the feeling—the overwhelming, paralyzing need for blood—had grown into a monstrous, physical hunger. She fought against the horrifying biological imperative.
“Please, my family,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper.
“You fool,” Marius growled, taking a menacing step closer. “He cares nothing for you. He cares only for himself. Worry not, another man loves you—I will use you to control him. You have fangs, so drink.”
“Fangs?” The word broke through the haze of control. She lifted her fingers to her mouth and touched the unfamiliar, razor-sharp points that had emerged from her gums. “I have fangs,” she repeated, the statement uttered in an almost trancelike state of horrifying wonder.
By this time, Maeve was so consumed by an agonizing thirst that the revelation of being a vampire mattered less than the immediate, visceral need for sustenance. She surrendered. She grabbed his arm, her grip unnaturally strong, and sank her new fangs into him. Her beautiful, brilliant green eyes faded, replaced by a solid, terrifying darkness that seemed to swallow her soul. As she sucked Marius’s rich, warm blood, a surge of raw, electric energy flooded her system. The pain vanished. She felt vital, powerful, and utterly alive. In that death, she felt truly alive.
“Have no fear. I will teach you what you need to know,” Marius promised, holding her tightly in his arms as she drank.
Hunter came back into the living room from the bedroom, a stack of blankets in his hands. “I took more blankets….” The words died in his throat as he finally saw the figure standing over Maeve. He froze, the blankets slipping from his numb fingers and pooling softly on the floor.
Marius lifted his head from Maeve’s, his face contorted in a silent, chilling hiss of rage and warning directed solely at Hunter. Then, in a moment that defied all known physics, he dissolved into a swirling mist and vanished before Hunter’s stunned, disbelieving eyes.
Hunter stood paralyzed for only a second before the reality of the horror spurred him into action. He ran to Maeve just as she let out a piercing, unearthly scream of pure pain. The vampire’s venom, now fully integrated with Marius’s blood, surged through her veins, completing the transformation.
She collapsed to the wooden floor, screaming as every single cell in her body felt as if it was consumed by fire. Her veins burned like molten rivers of agony. All external sounds faded; the only thing she could perceive was the horrifying, agonizingly slow thump-thump of her own dying heart. She looked up at Hunter, her eyes wide with black terror.
“I think I’m dying,” she gasped, the question and the statement equally present in her voice. What’s happening?
Hunter didn’t hesitate. He scooped her up and carried her back to the makeshift bed. Her eyes were now completely black, and her body was becoming increasingly rigid with continuous, violent tremors. He covered her again and, his hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped the receiver, called for an ambulance.
Maeve tried desperately to be still, but the slightest movement sent searing pain through her body. The emergency medical technicians raced through the backwoods to the remote cabin, but by the time their flashing lights cut through the darkness, it was too late. Paramedics worked on her feverishly but eventually transported Maeve to the nearest hospital. Once there, after a brief and futile examination, she was formally pronounced dead and moved to the cold stillness of the morgue.
I can’t believe she’s gone. Hunter stood beside the white-sheeted gurney, the impossible reality sinking its claws into him. He thought back to the dark, malevolent figure he had seen vanish into mist. He didn’t understand what it was—a demon? a ghost?—but he knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that this man had caused Maeve’s death.
Chapter 5 The Morgue
Maeve opened her eyes, but she could not see. The darkness was absolute, thick, and suffocating, pressing in on her from all sides. A cold dread, sharp and invasive, pierced through her. Where am I? The thought was a frantic, silent scream in the black void. Panic, a familiar, unwelcome guest, began to coil in her stomach, but this time, it was different. She had a strange, new control over it, a resilience she hadn’t possessed before.
In her past life, the anxiety had been a constant companion, a ghost haunting her waking hours. These anxiety attacks never made sense to anyone else, or even to her. They were visceral, physically terrifying experiences that felt indistinguishable from a heart attack, complete with crushing chest pain and a desperate struggle for breath. There was never any real, immediate reason to worry, but worry she did, perpetually. That crippling fear, however, was now tempered by a cold, hard certainty.
The metallic chill beneath her was unmistakable, the sterile smell of antiseptic and something faintly, morbidly sweet—formaldehyde. Am I in the morgue? I must be in the morgue. The realization was a horrifying punch to the gut. They put me in one of those bags. A heavy-duty, zipper-up body bag. The thought fueled a surge of adrenaline, overpowering the last vestiges of panic.
With a desperate, animalistic strength, Maeve ripped the thick vinyl fabric open. The sound was a loud, tearing rrrip that echoed unnervingly in the small, enclosed space. She shoved against the heavy, cold metal of the freezer door, her shoulder protesting as she pushed with all her might. It slid open with a screech of rusted rollers, revealing a sliver of dimly lit room.
Did I die? The question, simple yet profound, hung unanswered. She climbed out of the bag, her limbs stiff and uncoordinated. She was still wearing her thin, cotton pajamas—the same blue-and-white striped set she had worn to bed the night before. Her bare feet hit the cold, linoleum floor. She felt her skin, an act of self-verification, and it was unnaturally cold, a clammy, marble-like temperature that belied life. She pressed two trembling fingers against her neck, searching for the tell-tale thrumming of the carotid artery, but couldn’t find one. There was no pulse, no heartbeat, only a profound, silent stillness within her chest.
How long was I in the freezer? Hours? Days? Her mind was a chaotic mess of questions. A faint sense of relief washed over her: I am glad no one was working when I came out of the freezer. The thought of a technician discovering a half-dressed, pulse-less corpse climbing out of a refrigerated drawer was too much to contemplate.
Am I undead now? The word felt heavy, monstrous. I thought the undead didn’t have feelings. But she did feel. The love she held for her family—Hunter and Alex—was a fierce, aching pain in her chest, a feeling too strong, too vital to belong to a corpse. Is it because I am a fairy? She had magic, a powerful, inherent force that flowed through her veins like a second circulatory system. Maybe that makes me different from other vampires. The word slipped into her mind easily, without conscious thought, as if it were a truth she had always known. A vampire, is that what I am?
Driven by a sudden, urgent need for discretion and escape, Maeve scanned the small, cold room. She spotted a steel closet in the corner. She went to it and opened the thin door, finding a stack of supplies. On a hook hung a pristine white lab coat, and on the floor beneath it, a pair of slightly scuffed, standard-issue hospital sneakers. She grabbed the coat and quickly shimmied into it, its crisp cotton a poor barrier against the morgue’s chill. She laced the sneakers, the familiar motion grounding her. Disguise was her best chance. Her plan was simple: sneak out of the hospital, vanish without a trace.
Maeve had spent countless days and sleepless nights caring for patients within these walls. This hospital had been her second home, a place of meaningful, compassionate work. She had grown to love the rhythmic hum of the monitors, the controlled chaos of the emergency room, the quiet dignity of the palliative care unit. But now, she was a fugitive, racing through the familiar halls, a ghost in her own sanctuary. She kept her face down, hidden from the security cameras mounted high in the corners of the corridors. She knew, instinctively, that vampires didn’t give off a reflection, but the deep-seated, human habit of hiding from the camera’s lens was stronger than the new, unnatural law of her being.
Her only thoughts were of the two people who mattered most: Hunter and Alex. She raced toward the hospital exit, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving.
She sprinted out the door and into the cool night air, running the familiar route home. Her mind flashed back to the last night she had spent there, the night that had somehow ended in a morgue drawer. Hunter had been so compassionate, so loving. She had felt the fragile threads of her broken family mending, weaving back into a strong tapestry. She was getting her family back, a profound sense of hope surging through her. But the response she received from Hunter when she eventually returned—whenever that was—was not what she expected. A new, sharper anxiety returned, this one rooted in reality: What would Hunter say when he saw the undead, pulse-less mother of his child?
I built a bridge of patient, weary years, A silent span of quiet, chosen words, The mortar set with dried and vanished tears, A testament to battles, not rewards. My hands I offered, strong and open wide, To hold the weight of your erratic sphere, To stabilize the chaos you supplied, Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear. My effort was but dust upon the breeze, Against the wind of your profound unease.
When your world tilts and loses all its grace, The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines The atmosphere of this abandoned place, No longer haven, but a field of mines. A sudden, unexpected fire starts, Consuming fragile things that stood its test, Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart. With cruelty, you push me to the crest, The edge of sanity, my failing might, Expecting me to hold while you ignite.
I tried, desperately, to be the ground, The immovable foundation in the shake. I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found, Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake. But now the space between us is a void, A profound, echoing, desolate expanse, Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed, And understanding lost its saving chance. Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage, And your consuming need across this stage.
I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long, Memorized the texture of each emotional scar, Anticipating where the wound would throng, An unwilling cartographer of your war. But in that process, I forgot my name, Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill: Your punching bag, the target of your flame, Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill. But that era’s ended, clarity now bright, I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.
The door to this shared history is heavy now, Weighted by expectation and old despair, But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow. The work I poured is starkly laid out there— Not as a failure of a loving mind, But as an investment that was misguided, deep. I failed no duty, I was not unkind, I simply chose myself, the promises to keep To me. I recognized the point of no return, And in that closure, finally, I learn.
The silent, turning tide of life Has stretched the maps we knew, The seasons shifted, ground gave way, The ties between us drew
Slowly apart, a creeping drift. Demands attention, energy, Like water through the sand, Leaching the solid ground of time.
There was a time, not long ago, We were each other’s stay, The anchors holding fast and sure In storm of early day. We held the secrets, deep and bright, The wisdom time had wrought, Our days marked by the shared, full laugh, The tapestry we caught—
Before the world turned bright to cold. I feel the sharp ache of the miss, The ease we used to share, Where we could simply be, no need For any word or care. That ease is gone; the quiet now, The profound, long silence cast, Has tragically become the sound Our relationship held fast. When air grows thin with struggle’s breath, I seek those mirrored faces still.
I’m reaching back through the gray blur The passing years have made, Refusing that demanding life Will keep the things that fade. The miles that stand between us now Are lines on charts that lie, Meaningless compared to the depth Our history lifts high. Our memories, no fading echoes— But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.
With will and concentrated hand, I clear the tangled brush, Desperate to find the path again Beyond the isolating hush. A clear, resounding call I send
Into the lonely void. My friends, I want you now to know: I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed. I want us back—the kind of bond That bends but will not break, No matter what the wind may bring. It is the time our circle wakes.
I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play, The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long. I cannot hold the hollow smile another day, To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that’s wrong.
The burden of a self that isn’t mine to wear, To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight, An agonizing stretch away from who I care To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light. You see a project, a design that must be met, But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside?
I am finished fabricating reasons I have set, For every thought and every reaction I can’t hide. I’ve justified my nature to a vacant crowd, To people who, I now accept, simply don’t care.
The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud, A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air. I poured my heart to mend what broke between, But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide, A solitary swimmer in an apathetic scene.
The loneliness, a constant, heavy friend, A silent weight that settles on my weary chest. It is an awful life, but if this is the end— The price of being whole, of being finally blessed To be myself—then I will pay the cost, Choosing difficult solitude to rescue what was lost.
A burning, sharp anger now begins to rise, A desperate need to shatter this profound pain. But I know with bleak certainty in my own eyes, That fury would be wasted, dissipating like the rain.
This crushing truth has settled, stark and clear: Nothing I say, nothing I do or fail to be, Holds any weight for them, for those who stand so near. My voice is mute, my actions they refuse to see.
They are truly, utterly indifferent to my strife, They do not pause to question what my heart endures. My suffering, my struggle, the very pulse of life, Is an irrelevance that their coldness secures.
I feel the urge to weep the entire day away, To curl beneath the covers, let the sadness claim, But reason whispers of a temporary stay, No lasting remedy to solve this bitter game.
The torrent of resentment pleads to be set free, A physical demand I check with weary hand, Because the simple, crushing truth remains with me: It will not change a thing across this barren land.
A complete despair now chills me to the bone, In this cold context, in this life they have defined, The heartbreaking finality I stand upon alone, The truth that leaves no solace for the mind:
A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day’s long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night.
The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears.
A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky.
Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast, Where friendship’s enduring flame was played. Passionately kindled, burning bright, Unafraid of intervening years, A testament to affection’s might, Dispelling all the rising tears.
The quick exchange of grateful hearts, A quiet acknowledgement of grace, The inner vision of eyes that starts, Smiling across time and space. This sudden reunion, taking flight, A potent reminder, clear and true, Some bonds are not defined by sight, But by a spirit time can’t undo.
We walked the same path, pen in hand, Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign. Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land, Chasing the same bright star, divine. Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil, Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow, A hopeful process on a hungry soil, A private weight the outside doesn’t know.
But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench, The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground. The garden blooms, across a mutual bench, But only your name is on the flowers found. My careful work, the agonizing hours, My every effort, tragically the same, Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers, Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.
They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide, A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast. Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide The joy they feel that you have made it last. I am a shadow in this scene so bright, An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard. They click the heart, basking in your light, But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.
Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie, Are quick to share your links, to elevate. They laud your verse beneath the public sky, While my own craft lies in a silent state. So forms the question in my empty chest: Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth, Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best? The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?
If friendship is a mirror, clean and true, Reflecting back the efforts we impart, What does their universal silence do To my ignored, distant, lonely star? If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost, Haunting the edge of your success and grace, Who is the friend, and who is merely the host, Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|
The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root. They loved the writer, the idea of the name, And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit, In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame. The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high, Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line, But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by, Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.
I wrote this about 12 years ago but it still rings true.
For a month now, a deep, persistent fire has been burning in my gut. It’s more than just an uneasy feeling; it’s a profound, urgent need to share my story, particularly as a cautionary tale for other women. Yet, this internal wrestling match with my own complex emotions—fear, relief, anxiety—has held the words captive. I’m finally ready to speak.
Here is the crux of my message, something we’ve all heard countless times, but whose weight I now understand: Listen to your body. In a world where doctors are busy and systems are overwhelmed, you are the final authority on what is happening within you. A doctor might dismiss your concerns or tell you to wait and see, but you know when something is fundamentally wrong. It is, after all, your body, and you are its only constant advocate.—–My journey into hyper-vigilance started after my son’s birth. I expected the postpartum bleeding—it’s a natural, inevitable part of recovery. It initially stopped, which I took as a sign of normal healing. However, a short time later, the bleeding started again. This second bout was confusing. Was this a resurgence of normal postpartum lochia, or was it something else entirely? I decided that when it came to my health, I would always err on the side of caution.
My primary care doctor was the first person to truly listen. I explained that the bleeding had stopped once and that the renewed flow didn’t feel like a typical menstrual period. Crucially, I noted that the bleeding only seemed to occur during bowel movements. Recognizing that this pattern wasn’t typical for postpartum recovery, my doctor immediately shifted focus and referred me to a gastroenterologist for a specialized evaluation.
The gastroenterologist recommended a colonoscopy. The procedure, though daunting, proved to be an invaluable diagnostic tool. It revealed a number of polyps in my colon. They were removed and sent for testing, and the results were sobering: some of the polyps showed precancerous signs. This meant they harbored the potential to develop into full-blown cancer over time. The diagnosis necessitated a commitment to regular, vigilant colonoscopies to monitor my health and catch any future growths early.
This initial health scare hammered home the valuable lesson I now preach: trust your intuition. If a feeling persists that something is “off,” do not hesitate to speak to your doctor. And here is the essential second part: if your doctor minimizes your concerns or fails to investigate them seriously, you have the right and the responsibility to find a new doctor—one who will be your partner and advocate in your health journey.—–A few years later, my body sent a new signal. I noticed my menstrual periods had become significantly heavier than usual. Concerned, I made an appointment with my gynecologist. I laid out my medical history, and my doctor explained that while having had three C-sections can sometimes lead to a thickening of the uterine lining, this wasn’t necessarily the direct cause of the unusually heavy bleeding.
To investigate further and rule out any abnormalities, my gynecologist recommended an endometrial biopsy. This procedure, while not as comfortable as a Pap smear (which can involve some stinging), was manageable. It involves taking a small tissue sample from the lining of the uterus to be analyzed for any cellular changes or growths. Fortunately, the results came back normal, which was an immense relief, allowing us to focus on monitoring the situation.
Adding a layer of complexity to my case was my family history. My mother tragically passed away from ovarian cancer when I was just 11 years old. Given this profound and devastating history, I underwent genetic testing to see if I carried the gene mutation associated with the disease. Thankfully, those initial test results were negative, indicating I did not carry the mutation.
However, after a few years and a move to a new area, I needed to establish care with a new gynecologist. When I explained my medical narrative—the history of heavier periods, my age and the approach of menopause, and my strong family history—she introduced the idea of an oophorectomy (surgical removal of the ovaries). She candidly discussed the generally positive benefits of the procedure for high-risk patients. Crucially, she acknowledged that negative genetic tests, while reassuring, are not foolproof. A positive test confirms the presence of the gene, but a negative result does not always guarantee its absence, especially when combined with a strong family history and other physical symptoms.
My new gynecologist ordered repeat genetic testing. The results were again negative for the specific gene mutation, but this time, the report included a higher risk score. This score indicated that my overall risk of developing ovarian or related cancers was slightly elevated compared to the average population. This score, while not confirming a genetic mutation, served a critical purpose: it allowed my doctor to professionally justify the prophylactic oophorectomy to my insurance company, thereby securing coverage for the ovary removal. While the necessity of having to justify a proactive, life-saving medical procedure to a detached insurance entity is a source of frustration, that is a broader systemic discussion for another time.—–My journey has recently taken its most serious turn. During a routine ultrasound, a mass was discovered in my uterus. I have an upcoming surgery scheduled for June to address this. The doctors are transparent: they won’t know the exact nature of the mass—whether it’s benign, a fibroid, or something more serious—until it is surgically removed and analyzed.
Initially, my doctor recommended a targeted approach: removing both my ovaries (the oophorectomy) and the mass itself. We also had a crucial discussion about a more comprehensive procedure: a full hysterectomy, which involves the removal of the uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes, in addition to the ovaries. This option would offer the ultimate peace of mind, eliminating any future concerns about the current uterine mass or the potential for other growths. After careful, deliberate consideration of my history, my risk profile, and the desire for finality, I decided to proceed with the full hysterectomy.
This decision is deeply personal and fraught with emotion. I don’t speak with anyone who knew my mother well, for reasons that are theirs, not mine. I was too young to truly understand what she went through, both the visible signs of her illness and the unseen emotional turmoil. I don’t know what she truly felt or if she, too, had ignored an internal warning. I know, with absolute certainty, that I am making the right, proactive decision for my health and future. Yet, the finality of the surgery still fills me with a profound sense of fear. The recovery is expected to be lengthy, approximately two months. As a teacher, I deliberately scheduled the surgery for the summer break, a practical necessity, but the reality of the impending ordeal remains unsettling.
Right now, I am living in a space of suspended emotion—nervous about the surgery and the recovery, but overwhelmingly relieved that my constant vigilance and willingness to listen to my body have allowed me to find this out now, rather than discovering it when it might have been too late. The fight continues, and I hope my story empowers at least one other woman to champion her own health. ‘
Steel Butterflies
Steel butterflies flutter in my chest, Wings cold and sharp, an unwelcome guest. A relentless, metallic tremor starts its dance, Anxiety’s form, granting no second chance. It’s more than simple jitters, a bone-felt dread, A necessary crisis swirling in my head.
The calendar page is marked, an ominous decree, June looms closer, a date known sharp and free. Surgery’s shadow stretches long across the floor, A definitive threshold I must step across the door. An inevitable appointment, ever near its due, A silent promise of change, tinged with fear anew.
A mass unknown, a cellular mystery undefined, A whispered fright that occupies the forefront of my mind. My body’s map, familiar, now holds a foreign blight, A rebellion microscopic, far from the reach of light. The doctors speak in measured terms of scope and possibility, But the ultimate decision rests on me, fueled by fragility.
Ovaries, uterus, the devastating choice unfolds before my gaze, To surrender what defines my feminine past in surgical maze. A path of profound loss, a severance from history’s keep, A painful story yet untold, cloaked in misery deep. My mother’s journey, a fragmented memory veiled in mist, An unspoken, generational echo I find I cannot resist.
Did she face this same dark labyrinth, this medical might? Was she afraid, truly afraid, in the lonely hours of the night? Did physical tremors shake her hands, betraying her soul, When faced with choices monumental, to make herself whole? I search her silence for a clue, a comforting past’s sound, But find only inherited courage, holding firm to the ground.
The operating theatre waits, cold and sterile in its air, The scalpel’s glint, a swift flash, a silent, binding prayer. A sterile gleam reflecting a future I must forfeit and quit, A stolen dream of what might have been, a sorrowful, waking hit. The recovery’s road ahead promises a demanding, weary climb, An arduous journey back to strength, measured in fleeting time.
There will be pain, of course, and scars that tell an enduring tale, But hope remains, persistent, a flickering rhyme in the gale. For health’s embrace, for the promise of a future free from this dark curse, A necessary, heavy price I’ll pay, though my spirit constantly traverse. Though fear still whispers its insidious doubts in the silent, gray unknown, I listen for the stronger voice of resilience that guides me, fully grown.
This body, subjected to the test, wounded but not defeated, will mend, Finding a deeper strength in broken places, a journey without end. The steel butterflies will eventually fly away from my heart’s sound, Replaced by the steady rhythm of healing, firmly on the ground.
I lost the ones I thought would be An immutable part of my life’s tapestry, Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left A hollow space, of laughter now bereft. A loss not just of presence, but of promised time, Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.
I lost the endless, open channel’s flow, The casual intimate, the profound talk’s low. The message history remains, a silent tomb, But the living dialogue has met its doom. I lost the shared language, the inside joke’s release, The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.
I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays: How to reclaim it all through monumental days? More honest now, a deeper query rings: Do I want the fragments back, the broken things, Or is this void an opportunity instead, For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?
I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency, No compass for connection’s subtle geography. I cannot decode the rules that ever shift, To make a friend, or keep one from the drift. No knowledge of the delicate dance to start, Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.
The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent, Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant. My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion, Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion. The busy world’s quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace, Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.
I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel, A non-native in a world that seems unreal. Effortless for others, each social interaction Requires exhausting, conscious translation. Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast, The mechanics of connection hold me fast.
What proper alchemy transforms the passing name, An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame? What ritual’s required to solidify the friend, To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend? How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin? The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.
In this struggle, I lost my authentic self’s deep call, My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all. Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought, My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.
I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art, The reading of the body, the comforting hand’s part. The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing’s grace, The tools that equip others to master social space. Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog, Lost in isolation’s self-doubt, like a log.
But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night, The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light. The finding was no external, sudden grace, But a revelation born from that empty space.
I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside, No longer contingent on where others reside. A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess, To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.
I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true, With people who truly see me, and see me anew. Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity’s plea, These are the conversations that will not end for me.
I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition, A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion. No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled, I carry the source within, in the words I have said. It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate, A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.
