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Victoria Jones Poem
I confess I painted you in pastels, ]
by Torilee86 on February 17, 2026. © Victoria Jones
I confess I painted you in pastels,
soft blues bleeding into morning sky,
pink whispers of what I thought was love
brushed across the canvas of my broken heart.
Each color carries the weight of words I swallowed,
each stroke once a dream now folded into silence.
I spent days mixing and blending colors
trying to make something beautiful out of my pain.
I confess I am still painting,
still adding layers to this scene,
hoping the pastel color and soft edges
will make sense of the sharp corners,
Jagged edges that tore me apart.
Copyright © Victoria Jones | Year Posted 2026
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Victoria Jones Poem
Some are born to carry shadows in their bones—
to know the weight of stones
uninvited visitors throw.
We are soldiers in a war with no front lines,
an army of one
navigating minefields,
exploding bombs inside our minds.
We live in nightmares dressed as ordinary days,
chasing peace through smoke and haze
while hope erodes like shoreline
beneath relentless waves.
The armor we bear is heavier than lead—
each plate hammered from a scar,
each rivet driven through the tender parts
we've learned to guard.
Tears descend in silent streams:
salt trails mapping territories of pain.
Trauma swallows us in waves—
pulling us under, again,
again—
until we learn to breathe
in the spaces between drowning.
Memories cling like winter frost
to window glass,
distorting everything we see.
They haunt the corners where light fails,
cruel melodies on endless repeat:
the songs life demands
we learn by heart.
Do you see me?
I see you—
the same fractured mirror,
the same shattered view.
But still—
In the caverns of my darkest days,
in the marrow-deep ache of surviving,
I find a strange and tender grace:
a gift the light-touched never claim.
This appreciation blooms
in soil where others see only decay—
I notice what they hurry past:
the way dawn breaks on broken things,
how shadows teach the light to dance,
the fierce beauty of a body
that refuses to surrender,
the sacred weight of second chances.
Even as I grow bone-weary,
even as I break and bleed,
I see extraordinary beauty
hidden from those who've never grieved—
The silver veining through the cracks.
The strength in things that bend, not break.
The way the wounded recognize each other
across crowded rooms:
a glance, a nod—
the silent language of survival.
The poetry in what we had to forsake.
This beauty rolls in with the seasons,
then away with winter's breath—
fleeting, precious, sharp as sorrow,
intimate as life and death.
We who carry melancholy
see what joy alone cannot:
the full spectrum of existence,
the terrible beauty we've been taught
by suffering,
by surviving,
by singing through the pain.
We are the ones who know
that breaking open
is how the light gets in—
That the cracks are not the ending
but the place
where we begin.
Copyright © Victoria Jones | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Victoria Jones Poem
I still remember saying no—
soft at first, then sharp and slow—
while you ignored the undertow
and chose to stay, not let me go.
My body tensed, my voice turned thin,
a quiet war beneath my skin;
I said stop, but you leaned in—
as if my “no” meant discipline.
I was hurting, you were there,
but you moved like you didn’t care;
like you heard me, knew my fear,
and decided not to hear.
Pain spoke loud where I went numb,
thoughts went still, my mind undone;
all I felt was what you’d become—
a weight, a force I couldn’t outrun.
I wanted out, I needed air,
to break the grip, escape you there;
I screamed until it split the air—
and only then did you seem to care.
Too late to fix what you had done,
too late to say it wasn’t wrong;
I couldn’t name it, couldn’t run
from something buried all along.
Because you didn’t just take skin,
you worked your way beneath, within;
you planted love, disguised as sin,
and let confusion settle in.
I drank the dream you gave to me,
a false, intoxicating plea;
I wore your truth so willingly
I couldn’t see what I couldn’t see.
So I never called it what it was,
never spoke the word because
love had blurred the lines it does—
I trusted you, and that was enough.
The love I had became a blind,
a veil you pulled across my mind;
I thought your heart was intertwined
with mine in ways that heal, not bind.
I thought you’d save me, lift me high,
be gentle hands, a safer sky;
instead you taught me how to die
in quiet ways that don’t ask why.
Sweet at first, then turning cold,
a story dark, a lie retold;
you fed me poison tipped in gold—
and watched it slowly take its hold.
No hero standing in the end,
no savior, lover, guide, or friend;
just broken trust I couldn’t mend,
and truth I had to comprehend.
You wore a mask I couldn’t see,
a careful, crafted decency—
but underneath, so vividly,
you were the devil
disguised to me.
Copyright © Victoria Jones | Year Posted 2026
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