She took a timid step into the morning light,
a terrified exhale frozen on trembling lips,
a prayer left hanging, that perhaps,
the dawn might be merciful and
burn away the cold what-ifs of another lonely night terror.

Clutched in white knuckles, she carries the only word left…


A desperate whisper, let loose into the wind.


Wrapped around her like an unforgiving noose.

And then,
all at once,
and ever so slowly,
lungs filling up with air,

Her merciful unraveling…

Phrases, written in blood, undiscovered, long buried,
Dreams, too terrified to be imagined, believed impossible,
Drinking in light for the first time.
Deep rivers, exploding into life, rushing forward, unstoppable,
Cutting canyons into a thirsty desert soul.

Possibility, potential, reckless abandonment of all the dark before.
Ribs and tissue, blood and marrow,
Stitched and scarred, holding tight and setting free,
Containing and opening wide
A universe inside.
A revolution.
A phoenix with burning wings.

All this…
From letting go.

Chelsey Whitlow


The Muse

Tonight, there would be such a beautiful bleeding, torn open and laid bare, raw and untamed. She would give him everything… fire and spirit and blood… Herself. 

A willing destruction. 

When morning comes, there will be nothing but ashes and embers, burnt shards of who she was before… remnants of a life used to keep him, breathing and alive and dreaming. 

Ashes are better served at dawn and she would rise, only to burn again, night after night after night… If only to remind him of hope once more.