#tessiewrites — Public Fediverse posts

A Language Of Color

I speak in colour
when words feel too small
for the way I exist.

Red is what I wear
when my heart is loud—
deep passion burning at the edges,
love that does not ask permission,
fierceness that refuses to dim itself
for anyone’s comfort.

Black is not absence.
Black is grief, yes—
but also bravery.
The kind that walks through endings
without begging them to stay softer.
The kind that survives
what it cannot fix.

White is my refusal to blend in.
Not silence,
but presence—
clean, deliberate, certain.
The audacity
of being fully seen.

Yellow is laughter spilling over,
joy I cannot contain,
but also fragility—
the soft places I still protect,
even when I am shining.

Blue is peace.
Not empty peace,
but steady peace—
the kind that sits beside me
when everything else is loud
and tells me I am safe.

Orange is warmth without hesitation—
sunlight in motion,
a voice that says *stay*,
a feeling that never arrives quietly.

Brown is wholeness.
Earth held in human form.
Rooted. Real.
Unimpressed by anything
that tries to make it less.

Green is becoming.
Fresh breath.
Soft renewal.
The quiet proof
that I am still growing
even after everything.

Gold is richness—
not what I own,
but what I carry.
A glow that does not fade
when I enter a room.

Purple is royalty,
not given, but claimed—
the dignity of knowing
I do not need permission
to matter.

Gray is brokenness,
but not defeat.
It is what I become
when I am rebuilding—
in-between versions of myself,
still standing, still forming.

Pink is mischief,
soft rebellion,
the parts of me
that still dare to play
even after everything serious
has tried to stay.

I am not one colour.

I am all of them—
layered, shifting, alive.

A whole spectrum
learning how to belong
to itself.

THE WAGES OF SILENCE

He did not need to shout.

His voice was quiet—
the kind that lingers
long after the room is empty.

He spoke in warnings,
in looks,
in the space between
what was done
and what could be said.

And we learned quickly—
silence
was safer.

Or so it seemed.

Because silence
does not stay still.

It grows.

It wraps itself
around the throat,
settles in the chest,
teaches the body
how to keep quiet
even when it is breaking.

He walked freely
through our unsaid words,
unchallenged,
unseen—

made powerful
by what we carried
for him.

And I—
I held it too.

Like a secret
that did not belong to me.

Like a weight
I was told
was mine to bear.

Until I understood—

silence
is not always protection.

Sometimes,
it is the place
power hides.

—

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Silence has many forms.
Sometimes it protects.
Sometimes it connects.
Sometimes it carries what we are not ready to say.
And sometimes -it becomes the very thing that harms us.
This collection explores silence not as absence but as language.
A language learned, inherited, shared and,at times reclaimed.
These poems are not just about what is unsaid, but about what silence holds-love,fear, memory, power and choice.
-Nandipha Chibwe

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.

Fleeting Beauty

What a beauty it is 
to behold a sunflower, 
crafted with precision, so bold. 

Intricately designed— 
each seed, each grain 
carefully arranged, 
a testament to the Maker’s hand. 

What a joy it is 
to be a sunflower, 
with petals so fine and fair, 
lifting its face 
to the morning sun, 
finding warmth in golden air. 

To smile as the day begins, 
to follow the sun’s gentle spin. 

But as the light fades 
and evening draws near, 
the sunflower bows its head— 
humble, reverent, sincere. 

Like us, it returns to the earth, 
its beauty a fleeting gift, 
fragile and rare. 

Yet in its splendor, 
we see the Maker’s art— 
a masterpiece 
both delicate and strong. 

A rose is lovely, yes— 
but a sunflower, 
oh, that is a work of wonder. 

A reminder 
that we, too, are crafted 
with precision, with care, 
with love divine. 

What a beautiful, tragic gift— 
this life of ours, 
so fleeting, 
yet so profoundly designed. 

This poem reflects on how nature reminds us of divine craftsmanship in both the world and in ourselves.