empath
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Tonight’s writing is part reflection, part elegy, and it says something many healers, empaths, and compassionate people experience but rarely express out loud: the exhaustion that comes from always being the giver, never the receiver. The healer was never meant to mend their own wounds, not the ones hidden in the heart, nor the quiet… Read more
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I.In the hollow of your laughterthe walls trembled with a warmth that now shivers in the absence,each echo a splinter,each silence a weight I am unable to offsetII.You both were my compasses, the nurturing hands, the love, the life, the lighthouse in each storms. now with each breath only the sounds of ghosts whispering of… Read more
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you’ve never been thereyou’ve never held each memoryI wear my scars like scratches, scuffs, and swirling spoons striking my body ,faded edges, chipped rim you don’t see the way I gather pieces of myself from the floor, as a reminderof the ones who slipped through my hands like tiny grains of sand loneliness is a… Read more
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How do you write, why do you write; I was asked, and so with the weight of the room upon me and in a fragile breath I replied: Affective empathy,partial hyper empathy,I taste the salt of sorrow along with the sweet ache of absence,each word a single cord, becoming either a noose or a safety… Read more
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In the corner of a sun drenched window a tiny seedling grows, its green hypocotyl curling toward the light I noticed this was a rare creation birthed from whispered promises, and to the quietdevotion of hands that watered,loved, and spoke life into the soil She is not merely a flower ,but a beacon of resilience,… Read more
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She stands in the dim light of morning her laughter weaving through the fog that is now evaporating ,nails polished to a “T”, they catch the glint of the sun ,sharp like a Diamondback poised,ready to strike Her eyes could cut through titanium, or could cradle you like a mother with her new babe; yet… Read more
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the life clock ticks moment by moment an agonizing reminder of loss; faith slipping through my fingers like dust washed from gold by hydrogen cyanide My forgotten prayers all blurred, my guts are wrenched pleading for resurrection from the death I call life, and the light that never comes Outside, the horror of east coast… Read more
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Below are common C-PTSD markers, especially as they appear after long-term narcissistic or relational abuse. 1. Emotional DysregulationDifficulty returning to baseline after stress.Sudden anger, irritation, or rage (often followed by shame)Emotional numbness or shutdownFeeling “too much” or “nothing at all”Overwhelm from relatively small triggers 2. Persistent HypervigilanceThe nervous system stays in threat mode.Constant scanning for… Read more
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once again the kettle whistles, once a loud demand, now only a dull complaint; which is all that fills this hollow space as a reminder—even the simplest things can turn bitter gazing across the pasture I trees standing like military sentinels but they know nothing of the weight that grows heavier each minute daily I… Read more
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My tears fall like a dropped coin,tinkling, and twirling to rest; a reminder of absence,the sounds of what was, and what will never be I sit with my grief, no longer my parents deaths, but new demons to face wrapped in heavy webbing Outside, friends lives continue, their new family arrivals or other joy and… Read more
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In the busyness of a winter morning where the breath of pregnancy hangs in the air; two souls plus one find their selves whisked away to Winnipeg Then, as life outside pauses, awaiting the moment that bends time,the door swings open,and in rushes Thea,a bundle of light, the newest addition for Adison and Janina They… Read more
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I do not fear any door closing, nor the weight of absence that settles over empty fields as sunflowers bow alive in stillness and silence For over 10 years I have courted chaos, and her friend loss took my hand, as to steal me away then Death saw me and smiled for he is an… Read more
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Inside my rib cage lies a grave marked with 6 names and on the ground surrounding it are the remnants of a boy lost in memories and dreams,starved of life, breath fading; lost beneath what could have been This boy, that I the old man am, are one in the same: He often does not… Read more
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I sit with affective empathy in my office and cradle my coffee while lost in a mosaic of fractured reflections from the storm in the mind of the person across the desk from me watching out the slightly open window as a petulant child tugs on the hem of her mother’s patience, and hearing her… Read more
The Quill of Samantha Grace Newcastle 