u/Malice_In_Bloom

Two lines—

positively excited.

Dreaming of purple worlds—

soft,

hopeful—

filled with possibilities.

A color you could build a future on.

I painted everything with it—

walls,

clothes,

a life.

We gave you names

before you had a body

I could hold.

You didn’t make me a mom

that day—

but a mom of three

I would have been.

And when Marceline

came unexpectedly our way,

she would have made it four.

But you didn’t stay.

And I swear,

if there had been a door,

I would have found it.

I would have found you.

Ripped you from the edge

of nothing

and stitched you whole.

Isn’t that

what this body is for?

So why did it

let you go?

—

That night I danced—

my body speaking in riddles:

ache,

weight,

omens I mistook for growth.

Unknowing,

I was already

losing you.

I should have stayed home.

God—why did I go?

Why did I dance,

why didn’t I know?

No.

No.

That voice isn’t mine.

That voice isn't true.

It doesn’t belong

in this body

that almost made you.

—

They told me at the hospital

in careful voices.

But I had already learned it

in the red.

You were here.

You were here.

And then…

you weren’t.

____________

“Purple Dreams” is about miscarriage—the quiet silence left in place of a voice we’ll never hear, a body we’ll never hold, a life we’ll never watch grow.

While everyone else has moved on, I remain—still teary-eyed, still wishing I could hold them. It’s a quiet heartbreak, being the only one who still carries it. I don’t think I’ll ever put it down.

"Come closer," she whispers,

pulling smoke from the air,

with moonlight in her eyes

and stardust in her hair.

We sit knee-to-knee,

the circle holding us tight,

plotting out futures,

setting spells for the night.

"They think I am mean," she laughs,

sipping herb-scented tea,

"But you know how I am—

I am you and you are me."

"I’m going to untangle the grief

holding your heart,

and tear every story

of ‘never enough’ right apart."

She brushes a nebula-cloak

from her skin,

"I’m shifting the shadows

where your new world begins."

"I’m crafting a season

of fierce, vibrant green,

the brightest damn future

that you’ve ever seen."

"I’ll break down the barriers,

heavy and old,

and turn all your quietest sorrows

to gold."

She lights a black candle,

a flame for the dark,

"I'm taking your fear

and stealing its spark."

"Some things have to vanish—

the ice and the pain—

but honey,

I promise,

they won't fall in vain."

"I’m dancing new stars

into places of loss,

and covering

all your old wreckage

in moss."

She takes both my hands

in her trembling, vast grip,

a comet-tail promise

across her divine lips.

"You are not just a speck

in the void, do you hear?

You are my best friend.

You have nothing to fear."

"I’m weaving your laughter

into the next sky,

just trust in the magic,

watch how we fly."

________________

I wrote this after finding my way back to my circle and my sense of connection, both spiritually and in daily life.

It’s a conversation between myself and my intuition: the universe, karma, my ancestors. To me, they aren’t distant or abstract. They feel like a best friend sitting across from me, saying, "I’ve got you. Watch what we’re about to do."

This poem is for anyone beginning to trust that voice again.

Content Warning — This poem contains sexual violence, coercion, and the silencing of survivors.

__________

The air smelled like a well-kept garage—

oil and something almost clean,

like nothing bad could happen there.

But it did.

I had nowhere else to go,

so I went with someone

who felt like family.

His garage was too quiet

for something so wrong—

a bed,

a couch,

a TV,

no exits

I could reach.

My hands reacted before I did,

like they belonged to someone

who still had control—

pushing...

pushing...

pushing...

but never far enough.

My body fought

while falling asleep.

Blurry, cloudy,

too loud, too quiet,

my chest heavy,

then light—

like something loosening

that shouldn’t.

My mind ran

ahead of my mouth—

no… please…

words slipping

off the edge of me.

He said it like a compliment—

I’ve never had such a beautiful woman in my bed.

The sentence sat in the air

longer than I could.

Slimy lips at my neck,

cold hands under my shirt,

a foreign body that wouldn’t listen

to the word no

even when I tried to scream it.

Darkness came in slowly—

edges first—

like mercy,

like surrender,

like theft.

Who knew a simple drink

could empty a body out like that.

Strong hands—

cold and unloving—

lifted my tired body

into his lap,

even as my body protested.

I remember a roll of coins

in his pocket—

long, hard, harmless.

I was still innocent enough

to believe in harmless.

Morning came like nothing happened.

Shirt above my chest,

pants undone,

a smile too wide—

like the night had been kind.

He moved on,

like men do.

I said the word—

rapist—

and suddenly,

I was the problem.

I learned how quickly

a woman’s voice is put on trial,

while his life goes on

untouched.

__________

This poem is one of the most difficult I’ve written. It comes from one of the worst experiences of my life. My solace—and my horror—is in not being able to remember more.

Untouched is about trust, powerlessness, and silence. It follows the experience of sexual violence in a space that should have been safe, and the reality that naming that violence often puts the survivor on trial while the perpetrator remains untouched.