I am a patchwork of voices,
stitched together by hands I’ve never seen,
woven from the threads of those I’ve loved,
those I’ve lost, and those who passed me by
without a word.

In the eyes of a stranger, I learned quiet strength.
In the laughter of a friend, I found joy.
From you, I took patience.
From you, fire.
From her, a softness I didn’t know I lacked.
You, with your anger, taught me resilience.
You, with your calm, taught me peace.

Every encounter leaves a mark,
a scar or a flower,
each one growing roots inside me,
shaping the shape of who I am,
though I don’t always recognize it.

I carry their words in my bones,
their smiles in my heart,
and the things they never said,
echoing in the spaces between my thoughts.
I am not just me.
I am every conversation,
every touch,
every unspoken understanding.

I am the sum of them all,
a collection of moments that make me,
a living mosaic,
forever changing,
forever incomplete.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

All the things I’ve lost to time:
the sound of laughter echoing in childhood rooms,
the way the sun felt on my skin in summer’s embrace,
names I once knew by heart, now fading like smoke,
a thousand unspoken words, tucked away in silence.

All the things I’ve lost to time:
the scent of old books, pages turned with wonder,
the softness of hands I once held, now gone,
moments I thought would last forever,
but slipped through my fingers like water in a stream.

All the things I’ve lost to time:
the dreams I used to chase, now distant stars,
the sense of certainty that once guided my path,
the belief that some things could never change,
now broken, scattered in the winds of now.

All the things I’ve lost to time:
places that no longer exist,
the faces of people I thought I’d never forget,
pieces of me that I thought were unbreakable,
now buried in the dust of years gone by.

All the things I’ve lost to time:
the feeling of being whole,
the innocence of beginnings,
and yet I am still here,
with the weight of all I’ve lost,
but also the strength to keep moving forward.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

Where did you go?

I asked the sky,

but it only stretched wide,

a silent expanse of blue.

I asked the door,

but it never replied.

Just creaked and closed,

like it was hiding something.

I asked the chair,

where you used to sit,

but it was empty

like everything else now.

I wait for your footsteps.

For the sound of your voice,

but the house is so quiet,

and I am so small.

Where did you go?

I thought you would always stay.

But now only silence remains,

Where you once were.

I drew you a picture.

With crayons and small hopes,

hoping somehow you’d see

that I’m still waiting for you.

Where did you go?

I don’t know.

I keep looking for you

in every shadow,

in every room that feels too big.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Threads That Lead Us Home

Am I meant to understand my faults?

The parts of me that linger in the quiet,

whispers of things I cannot erase,

hints of imperfection in a world that moves forward.

I search for meaning in the cracks,

where pieces of myself might once return.

Each mistake feels like a lesson I can't quite grasp,

a pattern I repeat, yet still seek something deeper.

Am I meant to confront the truth within,

or remain behind a mask I’ve built?

Do these faults shape the person I am becoming,

or are they simply marks of my humanity?

I stand on the edge, trying to see,

wondering where these flaws begin and end.

Am I meant to understand them all,

or just keep moving,

even with the weight of them?

—Jamiya, the Writer

In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

The forest at night,
deep and tangled,
a place where light falters
and shadows stretch long.
I walk among the trees,
my mind as fractured as the branches
that twist and crack in the wind.

I am lost in the underbrush,
where the path disappears
into the thick of my thoughts.
Every sound is amplified,
each rustle in the leaves a warning,
each gust of wind a voice,
calling me to questions
I am too afraid to ask.

Am I the sky,
clouded and storm-tossed,
or the earth beneath,
heavy with rain and doubt?
I don’t know which part of me
will break first,
if it will be the trees, or the brittle bones of my mind.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

and we danced.

our limbs tangled in knots of sweat and flesh,

pressed against the frame of another.

too starved without knowing until in the arms of my pseudo-love.

the night is young and we’re just like two children,

excited for summer break, yearning for an extra hour of sleep,

rushing home to see our favorite shows. and the rush of my heart.

for all we know, we may never meet again.

your name is a distant memory lost in brain fog,

but your love and your touch is etched into my heart.

speaking a language unheard, yet felt.

for all we know, this may only be a dream.

but, we’ll dance.

and dance,

and dance until our muscles remember

this moment right down to the last minute.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

I’ve been dreaming,

and dreaming,

and dreaming,

and dreaming.

I’ve been dreaming of the words to curate an emotion so ferocious that they’d have to call the National Guard on me.

I see the words aligning together to create syllables that speak a truth.

I cry with those dreams from the stress of whether or not they can be fulfilled.

Injustice sits at my front door, trying to barge its way in, but there’s a deadbolt that keeps me safe.

How much longer do I have to wish upon a star to see glory?

To feel redemption?

When will I have my chance?

To stand in a spotlight that is my own to claim without the threat of another person’s hatred trying to bring me down to shame?

I’ve been dreaming.

Dreaming of the day where the sun never stops shining.

The moment where God casts down His hand and sweeps away all sorrow.

I am not a martyr to my dreams, but a seamstress that stitches all my hope together at the seams.

I’ve been dreaming for the day that peace open its arms to all of us and not just some...

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home

I have searched high and low for my sanity.

I am running against the clocking.

I have fallen outside of the current,

doing more fighting than my body could handle.

Sanity has become a distant dream.

I have morphed into my own worst enemy.

For what it means to be sane in the land of sensitivity is to become the thing I never wanted to be.

Concrete.

I crawl underneath my blanket at night, searching for a sliver of quiet with a flashlight.

Trembling nerves and electrified touches,

I am unsure if I can retrace my steps to get back into the current.

Sanity misses me on most nights, but finds me in the thick of the morning.

Encapsulating me in a mask until I make it back home.

I have searched high and low for my sanity.

No matter how much I look,

It still is nowhere to be found.

— Jamiya, the Writer

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In the Midnight Hour

Mama and Her Thorn Garden

The Thread That Lead Us Home