Cassette A.

Writing feelings down makes me feel okay, sometimes. :))

Writings

Followers

Following

Cassette A.

Writing feelings down makes me feel okay, sometimes. :))

Writings

Followers

Following

A Poem (I Guess) for My Wife

Cassette A.

1 min read

**(By Your Husband, Who Tried) **

Roses are red,

but so is the warning light in my truck when I don’t check the oil.

You tell me to check it.

I don’t.

You love me anyway.

That’s love, right?

You’re like… a good lawn mower.

Dependable. Strong.

Gets the job done but also doesn’t yell when I forget to do the trimming.

Okay, sometimes you yell. But like, in a cute way.

You’re the touchdown in my ot...

Poetry

Humour

Palimpsest

Cassette A.

1 min read

**((Trying something new—story writing isn’t usually my thing, so feel free to share any feedback!))**

It began with the ticking.

Not the clock—no, that had long since been silenced, its hands twisted backward in a gesture of defiance or prayer. This was deeper. This was the sound the world made when it held its breath too long. When it remembered. The ticking lived beneath the floorboards now...

Mystery

Thriller

Ode to the Girl Who Thought It Was Love

Cassette A.

2 min read

O fragile body,

temple of soft skin and wildfire spirit,

how many times have you been unwrapped

by hands that mistook possession for love?

O heart that loved too deeply,

you were taught that love

meant giving,

and giving,

and giving

until you were nothing but an echo

in someone else’s mouth.

If only this world could show me a little more mercy—

not bind me in ribbons of silence,

not cradle me in ...

Poetry

Pulled Too Thin

Cassette A.

1 min read

I’m being pulled in every direction—

voices clawing at my shoulders,

needs like nails, sharp and constant,

I am threadbare in the tug-of-war of expectation.

I’m being pulled in every direction—

every hand wants a piece of me,

and I have nothing left to give,

only the echo of a name worn thin by demand.

I’m being pulled in every direction—

not a breath between requests,

no room to collapse or cry...

Poetry

Built To Burn

Cassette A.

1 min read

The world will burn

and maybe then they’ll listen.

They carved gods from stone

but gave her no name—

just whore, witch, wife.

She birthed empires in blood and silence,

then was stoned for bleeding.

In Greece, she was property.

In Rome, a prize.

In Salem, firewood.

In factories, replaceable.

In wars, collateral.

She marched.

She bled for the vote.

She swallowed her rage in offices,

in kitchens,

...

Poetry

The Sharp Stick

Cassette A.

1 min read

Life is like a sharp stick—

jabbed in your side when you least expect it,

not deep enough to kill,

just enough to remind you you’re bleeding.

You smile through the sting,

walk with a limp no one sees,

because everyone’s got their own wound

hidden beneath pressed shirts and polite words.

Some days you scream in silence,

bite your tongue so hard it bruises,

just to make it through the next moment

...

Poetry

Lady of the Veil

Cassette A.

1 min read

She walks where silence clings,

dressed in morning’s hush—

the world begins beneath her wings...

Poetry

Locker 304

Cassette A.

1 min read

At 8:03, the hallway buzzed with sleep and whispers,

The girl stood quiet, third locker from the right,

A finger hooked on cold metal—

she turned the dial,

and there it was.

Folded sharp, like spite tucked into paper,

Edges crinkled, corner smudged with someone’s thumb,

She knew that smell—cheap perfume,

The kind they wore when they played pretend.

The letter was chaos.

Purple gel ink in loopy h...

Poetry

His Hands

Cassette A.

1 min read

He molds me from clay—

soft, compliant,

stripping the grit from my edges

like it was never meant to be there.

He smooths my laughter

into silence,

carves my spine

until it forgets how to stand.

My fire—

quenched beneath his vision

of beauty.

I watch myself vanish

under every perfect touch.

And I let him.

Because he calls it love....

Poetry

He Always Makes Them Sad

Cassette A.

2 min read

I was just drawing. Just crayons and stars.

In the hall where the light from the kitchen leaks far.

I wasn’t spying. I didn’t mean to—

But Mom’s voice cracked, and I heard it slip through.

“It’s not his fault,” she whispered, low,

“He needs help, not hate—he’s got nowhere to go.”

And Dad—his voice was rough like the floor,

Said, “What about her? She’s six, she needs more.”

I hugged my knees and ...

Poetry