i found summer cupped

inside a lone fig,

velvet skin surrendering beneath

my thumb.

peaches exhaled their amber perfume,

sun-warmed and heavy with

forgiveness.

pomegranate arils glowed like

garnets beneath the sun,

waiting to be broken open

by you.

honey gathered on your lips,

nectar bled along the curve

of swollen fruit.

its sweetness slipped over your tongue

as you spoke promises too beautiful

to refuse.

then you drank until the orchard

lived beneath your skin,

and its bloom remained

on mine.

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they taught you to hurt with your

words—

spitting out nails

jagged with corrosion

as they filled

your mouth with an iron infusion,

that bitter taste you have

when your mouth fills with blood

the third time he hit you

and then called it love.

and you held each wound

to that slick, scarlet weight behind

fractured bone,

hid pain in a cage and called

it a home.

traced violet blooms

as they stained your skin

and you wore them like armour

but the shame still got in.

so you walked into blackness

and it welcomed you there,

tempting you with silence

and a broken heart repaired.

it pooled around your ankles,

your thighs.

then your chest.

you looked to the stars and held

iron to breast.

as you swallowed those nails

you once spat out

they flowered into black honey

and filled your mouth.

not to tear your flesh—

instead, kissing your throat.

and the iron—

it weighed you down.

so you could no longer

float.

—

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you were loved by an angel,

yet you preferred miracles with

clipped wings—

and so you plucked her feathers,

until ribbons of flesh hung limp

from her carved back

like an unravelled prayer.

you gathered every bloodied plume

rolling each between your fingers

before scattering them to the wind

like dandelion clocks—

making wishes of dominion

and holy tyranny.

and with the remaining

you cradled them to your chest,

as though sacred grace

could make you holy.

and you hoped their sanctity might

seep beneath your skin.

then under the eternal skies

and the unblinking eye of the Divine

you stitched those feathers to

your shoulders,

forcing quills into

unwilling skin

but no thread could mend

a broken thing

and the heavens do not recognise

stolen wings.

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Do you still remember my voice after

you have fallen asleep,

in that state between deep and

conscious, when everything

beyond the darkness is fading

into an inconsequential whisper?

Do you still see my face when you

look at your own in a broken mirror of

lies and truths intertwined, a mirror

that reflects what you believe yourself to be,

whilst distorting the truth for those

who know you?

Do you remember the day you handed me

that knife

and encouraged me to spill my blood

across your blue, blood-resistant floors?

Or when you failed to protect me from men

who thrust their weapons into my bleeding

heart,

took my innocence away

when I needed you to help me tether it,

bind it to the earth so it would never be lost

to sex and drugs and

teenage motherhood.

Did remorse ever find you when you left our family?

Did you mourn your daughters- the mirrors of yourself?

Did you pity your son who still clung to your skirts,

a child when you left.

a man when you returned.

Do you remember the nights when I cried,

seeking a mother’s touch and soothing

voice,

only to be met with

anger and detachment,

alienation.

Do you recall when you would belittle and

hurt me with scathing words,

branding my fragile mind with names I then called myself

for years to come?

Words that wounded deeper than the knives and the plates hurled towards my head,

deeper than fists or open palms.

Those same words passed from your mouth to your grandchildren.

Do you remember me when you see others

in the streets,

mothers and daughters holding hands,

laughing and happy?

Do you remember me?

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You wear it so well,
even when it is hidden beneath
your layers of cotton and blues,
nestled amongst coils of raven,
slack and indolent—like you at times
when the weather is humid,
and you sit in that chair by the
porch window, staring into
the glade with a thousand thoughts behind
those opaque eyes.

You wear it so well
when it is at its peak,
like the mountains that rose behind us
when we made love beneath the May
moonlight—
towering and watchful,
their summits tipped
with white.

You wear it so well
when its taut skin pulses beneath us as we
writhe to a melody only we can hear,
as you rise like sentries
before their queen,
vying for her favour with their
blades forged from skin and
passion of the night,
until it is no longer yours,
but ours.

We wear it so well.

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'you are exquisite,' you say
as I brush my hair in front of your
glassy face,
your visage abundant with 
softness and delight.

'a countenance so flawless and pure 
that the fae themselves spill 
tears of envy.
your shape like the slope of valleys
after dusk
the flare of your hips
like stolen silk
as it spills.'

i marvel at your words,
hold them close to my chest
carry them with me
in case i forget. 

'you are ridiculous,' you say
'you look laughable in that dress of 
white satin and lace
you are unsightly and vain
you are boring and plain
with your dull, lifeless hair
and your pale, sallow skin
makeup caked upon a face
like riverbed clay split beneath 
august sun
and underneath its crevices
nothing will grow
just darkness and murk,
and perpetual shadow.'

i clutch your words to my chest
watch them burn
into my complexion-
words not from 
another 

but from my own

reflection. 

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A little bit about me..

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

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Author’s Note

This poem is my attempt to translate an invisible illness into a language that can be felt.

Each image reflects a symptom or sensation of living with adenomyosis: the crimson sky, the scent of pennies, the broken faucet, the spinning roundabouts, the storm-tossed ships, and finally the beasts clawing at their enclosures. They are metaphors for heavy bleeding, iron-rich blood, the loss of control, dizziness, chronic pain, and that relentless feeling that your own body has become a place of conflict.

Adenomyosis is often misunderstood, dismissed, or reduced to “just bad periods.” For many, it is a condition that touches every part of life—physically, emotionally, and mentally.

If this poem resonates with you because you, too, live with adenomyosis or another chronic illness, I hope it reminds you that your pain is real and that it deserves to be acknowledged.

the sky fills with hues of
crimson, peach, and 
burgundy 
hummingbirds flutter against
my breast
a steady drumbeat-

music to my ears

the smell of pennies 
in my palm
a broken faucet flows

freely 

filling the streets with 

chaos 

roundabouts that are too fast
making the clouds spin in 

               erratic
                             circles

above our
heads. 

far away
ships sail on stormy seas
in the 
atlantic basin
seeking sanctuary in the 
warm flow of (water).

venture deeper, and you will see
beasts clawing at
their enclosures
leaving marks as they 

rip and 
tear. 

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A little bit about me..

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

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i raise my voice to the
heavens above,
trembling with the earth,
my skin akin
to the blood 
within,
coursing with the rage of a
thousand women.

and yet when it comes to you,
the revolution leaves
my body,
my fury swallowed.

i ache

to please and be pleased,
to be the one
who worships at your 
knees.

i am a walking contradiction 
a traitorous soul
a woman who screams
for women to grow 

wild.

and yet i will gladly wilt under
your gaze
yearning still for your
sacred praise.
i am a paradox of sorts-
a woman condemned
to fight for freedom
yet forever remaining

chained. 

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A little bit about me..

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

Enjoying my work? Please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support helps me build a financially independent writing life, giving me the freedom to create more poetry, essays, and fiction while supporting my family. Thank you for making this journey possible.

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euphoria from the onset

coursing through rivers red,

as I wander beside the infinite ocean

its waters black and blue—

like bruises on arms

and beaten hearts.

i lay on the ocean’s strand,

the sugared grains teasing my back

and crowning my hair

as i close my eyes and fall,

sleep-soaked and drifting—

the sun caressing me

with its rays.

i am drowsy with contentment

eyelids heavy as my lips curl

into a smile.

i feel my breathing settle into a

majestic largo.

then i feel gravity dissolve,

time stretches into a stygian void,

my dreams turn to fire—

flesh melting beneath the scorching sun,

acrid smoke fills my lungs,

as my body chars

and my veins crumble to ash.

my dreams are no longer safe

and neither am i.

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I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

i was born whole—
a joyful child, 
blithe and carefree.
and as i grew,
my beauty blossomed 
into something sacred—

god-touched

they claimed. 

hypnotic. 

undressing me with their 

eyes

everytime i walked on by.

until words replaced thoughts,
and touch replaced sight,
and the god of the sea himself 
defiled me
beneath vast ceilings made of

stone. 

a temple meant for worship 
instead became a prison
meant for me.

and as i lay bleeding,
my shadow eclipsed 
by radiant light, 
she stood before me
in all her mighty 
glory. 

"rise my child.
i shall set you free,
and never again
shall the hands of men
bring harm to thee."

i felt myself dissolve
like a larva beneath its shell,
flesh parted as sinew sang,
scales replaced skin,
and venom replaced 
passion.
my glorious crown,
once adorned with silken braids,
was woven anew with

hissing serpents.

i opened my eyes 
to a world that could 
no longer claim me.
and for the first time,
my body belonged only
to me. 

now when men lay their eyes
upon me,
they find themselves frozen—
unable to tear their 
gaze away—
unable to touch,
to hurt,
to take what was never
theirs.
stone now climbs their veins
the way fear once climbed
mine
and they became
the statues the temple
had been waiting for. 

may they fear me,
call me a
monster,
wear my face upon their shields.
for what else is a gorgon to do
with the gift athena gave her, 
but become the 
reckoning 
every women deserved 
and every violent man
never expected.

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I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

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i.

watching gargoyles replaced 
by the all seeing eyes 
of CCTV on churches—
inside there are now food banks
instead of the harvest festivals that were
once overflowing with fruits 
pulled from orchards
that now host overhead drones
instead of nectar-seeking 
pollinators.

ii.

we are watching 
our mirrored selves
through video calls 
instead of waving from 
train windows, 
collecting blue ticks 
when we could be collecting 
love letters still carrying their 
perfume, 
pressing cellphones to 
our ears instead of 
warming phone boxes
with loose change. 

iii.

teenagers sharing 
digital playlists
instead of 
mixtapes,
their parents 
joining group chats 
instead of neighbours leaning 
over fences for the latest
gossip,
slick green plastic grass
carpeting gardens,
instead of mud-filled puddles
and shrieking children-
knees dirtied, faces radiant,
and in the evening 
their bedsheets glow with the
blue light of a tablet,
rather than the soft glow of 
a torch
lost in a carousel of jump cuts 
forever chasing the next thrill 
through a screen instead of 
within the pages of 
a book. 

iv.

LED streetlights drowning out
the very constellations
men once trusted to lead them
home,
now placing their faith in apps
with maps,
their wives finding recipes pulled 
from blogs
instead of flour-stained
index cards,
their corners creased and softened 
by butter and time.
they sit beneath the
fluorescent lighting 
of their kitchens
creating a memorial page 
for a loved one lost,
leaving comments beneath
photographs posted for 
millions to see
instead of flowers 
beneath a headstone
in a private 
ceremony. 

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if you liked this you may also enjoy-

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my children and helps me to become more financially independent and self-sufficient. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

— S

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drifting through a veil
of iridescent awe,
a weightless spectre
lost in a liminal 

dreamscape.

passing through the
threshold of
awareness,
slipping into reverie,
through the opaline drapes of 
hypnagogia,
until reality dissolves into

somnolence.

an ethereal haze rains
softly down,
casting a mirage of
moonrays
upon opalescent skin,
a state of ecstasy woven with

serenity.

dream-moths
clad in gossamer starlight,
dance in clouds of 
lilac nebulae,
whilst i twirl,
arms outstretched,
in skirts of 

Fata Morgana--

a phantom stitched 
from yearning,
forever bound by these

lucid dreams. 

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I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me <3

he slinks into our minds
in his emerald two-piece suit

a serpentine conspirator.

convincing us.
that what we have
will never be
enough. 

          never enough.

                    never enough.

never fulfil us. 

          more. 

                    more. 

look at what they have.

and take it. 

          take it.

                    take it. 

make it yours.

          mine. 

                    mine. 

then perhaps for one moment,
you will believe that you
have stopped
wanting more. 

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I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me

beneath divine radiance,
beneath her veil of 
pearl-white clouds,
lies a heart of molten,
storms beneath silk, 
a cathedral of pressure.
she is a celestial alchemist
turning the rough carbon of 
human insecurity into 
diamonds of self-worth.

always watching from afar
morning and evening star. 

a tutor to those
who long to shine, 
she coaxes buried light
to the surface,
teaches flowers to unfurl and 
pulls hidden gold from
pallid skin,
unveiling love 
already beating within
waiting hearts. 

yet every blessing
demands its offering. 

beauty shifts its shape with time. 
love yields to heartbreak.

she welcomes all
who answer her call

but heed her song.

as she is but a gilded illusion.

beneath her alabaster shroud and 
illuminating splendor 
is lead-melting breath
and violence within
her greenhouse womb

and what may gleam from a distance
may consume those who
venture too close. 

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For more Poems from the series ‘A Human Astronomy,’ please click here—

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

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an abundance of gardens,
some lush and filled
with dense forestry--
a tangled web of vines 
with their complex
tendrils and twining stems.
others lie barren
soil soft and silken beneath
my touch.
earth so sleek i could lie there
beneath a thousand stars,
my worries dissolving into
nothingness.
some are both--
wild yet soft,
an amalgam of flora and 
moonscape,
a place to receive
the kiss of their union.
many of these
are warm and inviting,
others are closed to the world,
their florets and blossoms
destroyed beneath the touch
of others.
some gardens bear fruit,
others bear pain,
yet each one yearns
for sunlight upon its
sacred ground. 

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I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me. ☽

left

right

forwards

back

arms up high

and bow

deep into that courtesy

i know so well

tip of my freckled nose

barely skimming the floor

my empty gaze fixated on

the wood grain

false smile painted on a

porcelain face

up

down

legs up high

call me a good girl

i’ll give you a twirl

tell me i’m yours

i’ll get down on all fours

curtains down

i collapse in a heap

as you release my strings

finally free

for a moment whilst you—

brush off your manipulation

soak up all that

acclamation

applause for you

back to the box for me

shut

locked

throw away the key

i’ll wait in the dark whilst you

bathe in their light

smile fixed on my face

eyes opened wide

i won’t let myself slip

fall

break

i’ll be perfect for you

make no mistake

when you come back

and pull on my strings

i’ll know every step

left

right

forwards

back

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i see the world

through warped glass,

lines melting into one another,

a reflected landscape dancing

in hues of silver and gold.

somewhere beyond the fog,

a television flickers

its screen a waltz

of black and white,

if i listen carefully,

i can almost hear

its crackling pitch.

i shiver in the winter cold,

the land lies barren,

nothing flowering beneath the frost,

the thick fog engulfs me

like a heavy woollen throw,

dulling every sound,

muting the pulse

of the world.

my back screams beneath

the heaviness of it all—

this dead weight

i cannot set down.

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This piece emerged from years of living with depressive episodes, anxiety, and periods of dissociation and derealization.

There are moments when the world feels distant and distorted, as though I am observing my life through warped glass. Colours shift, sounds become muted, familiar places lose their shape, and even my own body can feel impossibly heavy.

For a long time, I struggled to find language for these experiences. Poetry has become a way of translating sensations that often resist explanation.

If these lines strike a chord with you, I hope they offer a reminder that you are not alone in what can feel like an isolating and invisible experience.

As always, thank you for your support.

~ Samantha 🌙

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my fingers wander through
tousled waves the colour of
spun honey and 
sunken amber,
the polished husks of
acorns in autumn.
i bury myself in the 
auburn thicket of
his beard
collecting scents of
lemon and patchouli 
coconut and sweet almond. 
light jade eyes 
the soft green of sea glass upon
the ocean floor, 
and when sunlight finds them
they kindle, 
casting their brilliance of
green fire.
ten lines between 
eye and ear-
crows feet they call them. 
deep crevices filled with 
memories,
like the fissures along
the earths very face
when she trembles beneath
our feet,
a reminder of power
beneath beauty.
a mouth a thousand times
kissed by my lips
in intimate darkness,
and the golden spill of dawn. 
a smile which steals 
my breath
each time he offers it
to me. 

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For more poetry and other articles, click here-

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time home-educator, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me ✨🌙

Part I: Before.

she forever orbits 
his mighty grace
a cerulean murul
etched on her face
eternally suspended 
in the primordial aether
perpetually waiting
for the gods to 
save her. 

she sang songs of creation
of her own
transformation
from barren to fruitful
her harvest rich 
and bountiful
then her kin grew restless
their wickedness
endless
and she watched as they
abandoned her
oppressed and 
denied her.


Part II: Present. 

divine matriarch 
burning under 
patriarchal orders
they took what was sacred
from her sons and her
daughters
and so she held her children
against her
heavy heart
with her wrath she
tore the heavens 
apart
she quaked with fury—
an ancient rage
to punish those who sought to keep 
her children caged
her fault lines spread wide and 
far
leaving her body with enduring
scars

Part III: After. 

she is done waiting for gods to 
save her
and now her sacred nature 
begins to stir
for man has forgotten that a woman 
scorned
is where the fiercest storms are born
and whenever our mother feels she is
silenced
she will always respond

with merciless violence. 

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For poem II click here—

For poem I click here—

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

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──── ❈ ❈ ❈ ────

watch me as i

bury myself

in mother soil

and flora

soaked to the

soul

with rains from the

open heavens

and memories of a

life before

try to remember me

as i evanesce

into the

northern wind

carried away by

starlings

and the ghosts of other

—

forgotten women.

──── ❈ ❈ ❈ ────

──── ❈ ❈ ❈ ────

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──── ❈ ❈ ❈ ────

I’m Samantha. I’m 35. A mother of four, a full-time homeschooler, and a perpetual student of the world around me. I spend my spare moments reading, writing, and learning.

My hope is to one day become a published writer and create an income through my words—an income that helps support my family and lightens the burden carried by my hardworking husband. Every subscriber and paid subscriber helps make that dream feel a little less distant.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging independent writers, and for sharing this corner of the internet with me.

Share

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