Chaos with Cait

I find the most peace with my nose in a book, the sun on my skin, and my favorite food close by. I watch as the sun sets and the moon comes out to sit with me. I say goodbye and hello to my dear friends, at the same time. I leave my thoughts to rest, in the field full of wildflowers. Where I sit feeling blessed, that my time has come to truly rest.

My strangeness blooms where conformity dies. A garden no one expected.

I cried myself to sleep, four times this week. But tomorrow will be better, right?

For years, my words have felt like darkness. I have been drowning daily, in my own thoughts. Every poem, every word I have shared, has carried since type of sorrow. I have wrestled with my own mind just to be able to gather a clear thought long enough to put it on a page. I have written about grief and hurt, pain and loss. I have shared my deepest fears, and the worries that keep my eyelids peeled open at night. I have struggled with feeling swallowed whole by the voids that

Every glance of hers a fire starter. She is the heat. All spark, soft skin, and flame. She’ll drive you crazy, and leave smoke in your lungs. Still, you’ll crave the warmth of getting too close.

Saying yes to me meant setting fire to every version of myself that the world built for me.

I give black cat energy. And most days, I’m okay with that.

There is something restless in the way you become not once, but time and time again. There is magic in the way that you grow, like roots reaching out to ground themselves before the seasons bloom. You are the beautiful blossom in a world filled with cold. You do not just grow, you insist on it.

I stopped waiting to become who I was before. Instead, I introduced myself to the woman who survived. I held her hand, and promised her that she was one hundred percent worth the fight.

See me. Even when my words scatter like broken glass.

I care too much, about almost everything. This has created immense stress, and problems for me.

The dragon breathes fire, when she so desires.

She was never small. The world simply built rooms that could not hold her hunger for more.

Rebuilding my life from ruin, has been the hardest thing to accept as true.

I grow bored so easily. You must work to keep my interest, if that interests you.

They said my grief was ruin, but they didn’t know that I was descended from the kind of women who turned heartbreak into constellations. I walked through loss like a lone figure crossing a desert of broken time, each tear falling and hardening into glass crystals the Gods would later use to read the future. They mistook my silence for shattering, not knowing that I had entered the underworld to retrieve the parts of myself I once left behind. Every wound of mine became a doo

I honor the way that I am built, wild edges and all. Weird, chaotic, clumsy, creative. There is no other shape like mine

I rebuild myself gently no rush, just truth.

I am no longer afraid of being seen the light can have me, all of me

My worth is not up for discussion, not even with myself. I know that I am magic. So there is nothing to debate about.