Swipe Left On Perfection

I began writing this a few months back and finally finished it tonight. And I’ve decided to publish my poems without holding back any longer. I have a life of stories to tell and a heart of poems longing to be released. So here is my first.

I still hadn’t named it yet but I’m going to call it “The Honesty of Tides”

I tell the truth the way water tells the shore—faithfully, carrying the horizon forward until it breaks at my feet.
Tilt the sky a degree and the tide becomes a mirror,
tilt it again and the mirror becomes a map of escape.
This is perspective: one starlight, many ripples.

I learned boundaries from coastlines—
not walls, but agreements with the moon.
My no is a shoreline where the sea bows to the land,
where salt remembers it is not a wound but a mineral,
and the wind learns to knock before it enters.

I am Scorpio, fixed water:
a dark lake that keeps the stars when night forgets them,
a keeper of depths, a secret well under the noise.
I have worn my armor like a hymn,
carried a small crescent of thunder in my tail.
Once I thought every tremor meant defend,
but a sting can be unthreaded into a needle.
Now I stitch torn nights with the same sharpness
that once drew borders in fire.

Autumn taught me the clean art of release.
The leaves do not apologize as they change with the seasons.
I molt, too—quietly—each layer a shed myth,
each myth a husk I thank before I set it down.
Winter lets me keep the seeds in my mouth like prayers.
Under ice, the lake is a patient choir.
When spring returns, I will open my palms;
what I nurture does not have to be painful to be mine.
Summer is the blaze that shows me my shadows,
but I no longer mistake the shadow for an enemy—
only a compass when the sun is too bright to face.

Trust is a bridge I build plank by plank,
from rib to rib, from then to now.
I test it with the weight of my oldest questions:
Will I be held if I am holy and flawed?
Can my voice be rain and thunder at once?
My intuition answers from its obsidian well:
Drink. There is room for the storm and the garden.

I have loved myself like a lighthouse loves its duty—
not for the shine alone, but for the quiet gears inside.
The part of me that dives to the wreck
and the part that surfaces with a mouthful of salt and sky—
both belong.
I forgive the version of me who only knew how to survive,
the sentry who slept with one eye open,
the tongue that mistook silence for safety.
Come sit, I tell them. We were the best tools we had.
We can be instruments now.

Truth is not a blade or a balm; it is weather.
It moves through me and I let it,
a barometer learning the difference
between catastrophe and change.
Honesty is a prism I hold close to my heart
and what I feared would cut through me
arrives as color.

In the constellated blanket of stars, I trace my coordinates:
loyalty that burns clean, courage that breathes underwater,
boundaries like rings in a tree—growth recorded in restraint.
I will no longer shrink to fit the room;
I open a window and let the room grow.

And when the old ache knocks, I answer with both hands—
one steady as bedrock, one tender as new rain.
I am not halves negotiating a truce;
I am the whole river, deltas, source, silt, and song.
I am the scorpion setting down her sting to lift a seed,
the phoenix that remembers ash is also soil.

I will always rise.

If you ask who I am, I will tilt the sky,
show you the same tide from many shores.
Perspective is not a lie; it is a lantern.
I carry it carefully, and walk myself home—
complete as the night that keeps its stars
and still makes room for morning.

Thank you for reading.

New Posts starting every Wednesday. Xoxo