🎶✨🌑 Paper Girl Poetry Collection 🌑✨🎶

Raised among blades and stones,
she learns to fold,
to fly,
and when needed,
to burn.

Paper Girl is a story of a tender creature growing up in a world of sharp things. She learns early how to lie flat. How to keep quiet. How to survive the cuts without bleeding where they can see her fall apart. Paper-thin and dangerously absorbent, she soaks up every room’s weather—joy, venom, static—and has to decide what stays as ink and what must be wrung out. The paper plane she becomes when escape is her only mercy. The origami heart she folds and unfolds, crease by crease, until it remembers how to open again. The match she keeps in her mouth for the day a boundary needs fire.

This is a collection of betrayal cataloged like water damage—warped edges, blurred names, whole paragraphs lost—self-worth built in sand. It’s a lone restoration. It’s like drying pages in the moonlight. It’s about mending shattered spines. It’s about choosing which chapters to keep and the ones which belong to her. You’ll see a girl who was told she was fragile, nothing, leaf-like and worthless. She carries the weight of a broken family on her shoulders. She grows aerodynamic, then incandescent. This proves that empathy is not the same as ruin.

Night Girl is a love letter to the hours that never asked her to be smaller, when the world finally loosened its jaw. These poems keep company with starlight and stormglass. Places where the moon took first watch—patient, unblinking, where the shadows learned her name, standing between her and anything that wished her dim, wished her smaller.

In this story the Night Girl befriends the ones that daylight misunderstands. The monsters with gentle hands, good ghosts with unfinished sentences, weirdos and misfits who never ask her to hold secrets. She belongs with them because she is them… soft, strange, and built for twilight. These poems wander under the black water of space, asking necessary questions. Why is darkness treated as danger when it’s where stars are born?

Here, darkness isn’t danger, it’s medicine. Shadows aren’t enemies, they are rooms with softer acoustics. Romance chooses tenderness over taming. Mystery that feels like home, and an ocean that mirrors back the best parts you keep hidden at noon. This is for the ones who keep matches in their pockets and mercy in their mouths.

The Night does not seek to tame her. It protects her. The moon is a friend, the shadows, a spine. Together they make a harbor where she can breathe deep, love hard, and tell her truth without flinching.

Ghost Girl

an elusive idea, slowly inking words on a page…

Ghost Girl is a séance for the living parts of you that went quiet to survive. This is my story of trauma. These poems walk the thin hallway between memory and disassociation, where breath fogs the mirror and handwriting appears on its own.

Ghost Girl is half-here, half-elsewhere—learning to re-enter her body like a house with creaking floors and light in the attic.

She practices soft hauntings, visiting old rooms with new boundaries, ringing the bell of her own ribs until truth answers back without fear. This is a tale of candle smoke and rain glass, phone calls that never connected, keys that don’t fit until they do. Expect love letters written in negative space, apologies returned to sender, and a romance that holds the ghost gently in limerence while helping the girl stay.

This is not a story about disappearing. It’s about return, reclaiming names, unbraiding inherited silences, making peace with rooms that echo—and choosing which echoes to keep. If you’ve ever felt translucent, missing, gone, Ghost Girl always leaves the porch light on.