Whispers Through The Veil

Whispers Through The Veil Turning silence into poetry—one raw, honest verse at a time. Sharing pieces of healing, darkness, and light. Submit anonymously if you’d like.

We don’t have to go through it alone.🖤

07/23/2026

The Things We Never Buried

They say that time will make us whole,
That every wound will fade with grace.
Yet some are stitched beneath the skin,
Where years cannot erase.

I do not mourn the life I lived,
Nor curse the road I’ve known.
I mourn the child who learned too young
That pain is best alone.

She learned to hide her shaking hands,
To smile through every ache.
To carry storms behind her eyes
And never let them break.

She spoke in whispers, soft with hope,
Afraid she’d ask too much.
For every soul can starve to death
Without a loving touch.

You taught me how to swallow tears,
To bury every plea.
Yet never saw the grave you’d dug
Was slowly swallowing me.

I begged for hands that reached with warmth,
Not reasons, rules, or blame.
A frightened child still knows the truth,
Though she can’t speak its name.

Now every kindness that I give
Is born from what I lacked.
I leave no heart to stand alone,
No soul to be attacked.

For love is not a lofty speech,
Nor wisdom wrapped in pride.
It’s sitting on the bathroom floor
When someone breaks inside.

It’s staying when the night is long.
It’s listening without fear.
It’s saying, “You don’t have to earn
The fact that I am here.”

So if these verses ever find
The lips that spoke my name,
Don’t ask me why I still recall
The echoes of that pain.

The years have taken much from me,
But one thing still survives:

The child who waited at the door…

Still hoping

Love

Arrives.

-CF

07/10/2026
I made something a little different. 🖤“What the Healer Kept” is a song about surviving the things that should have destr...
07/10/2026

I made something a little different. 🖤

“What the Healer Kept” is a song about surviving the things that should have destroyed you—and the pieces of yourself you had to bury just to make it through.

For anyone who has ever been the healer, the strong one, the survivor…

This one is for you.

If it speaks to something in you, I’d love if you watched the full video over on YouTube. 🖤🔥

© 2026 Yours By Firelight. All rights reserved. Unauthorized reprod...

05/19/2026

Quicksand

They told us about quicksand
when we were children.
Told us panic was the killer.
That survival meant stillness.
That fighting would only drag us deeper.

So I learned how to freeze.

I learned how to smile with blood in my mouth,
how to call suffering “strength,”
how to shrink myself into something quiet enough
to survive other people’s storms.

And for a while,
I mistook silence for healing.

But no one tells you
that staying still too long
can become its own kind of death.

No one tells you
how suffocating it is
to feel your own spirit clawing at your ribs
begging you to move,
to scream,
to run,
while the world praises you
for being “composed.”

I think that’s the cruelest part.

Not the pain itself,
but how society teaches us
to endure it politely.

To swallow rage.
To make ourselves smaller.
To survive quietly enough
that nobody has to acknowledge
what’s happening to us.

But maybe survival
was never supposed to look like stillness.

Maybe healing is ugly.
Maybe it thrashes.
Maybe it cries too loudly
and ruins dinner conversations
and leaves muddy footprints everywhere it goes.

Maybe the only reason I kept sinking
was because I spent years
mistaking surrender for peace.

So if I move now,
if I fight now,
if I claw my way toward air
with shaking hands and a breaking heart—

it is not weakness.

It is the first honest thing
I have ever done.

-CF

01/04/2026

I don’t disappear into books.
I arrive.

Somewhere between ink and breath,
my name fits better.
My bones remember their shape.

In that other world,
grief has language,
magic answers honestly,
and no one asks me
to be smaller than I am.

I walk its roads like I’ve lived there before.
Like I was always meant to.

When I return, reality feels thin—
a place I visit,
not the place that knows me.

Because some worlds don’t distract you.
They recognize you.

01/04/2026

The dark knows my real name.
I learned it while bleeding quietly
into the spaces no one looks.

Grief taught me magic—
not the kind that fixes,
but the kind that survives.

I light candles for the parts of me
that never got an apology.
They still glow.
They always do.

Some truths arrive as chills.
Some love never leaves—
it just waits,
thin as smoke,
patient as night.

-CF

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Columbus, OH

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