The In Between

Not Bringing Myself Down Anymore

The In Between — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 10:02:40 GMT

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My VO: I Let Go

I Let Go

I let go of every no I told myself,
of the cage I built
out of failures to launch.
I release the tears
that drowned my sorrows
and convinced me I was unworthy
of a better tomorrow.
I release the shame
tied to my name,
my accent, my humble start,
the not enough that hangs heavy
on my broken heart.
Not pretty enough,
not smart enough,
not good enough,
not strong enough,
not connected, not collected,
not practical or purposeful,
the have-nots a noose around my neck.
I untie the rope that chokes
in the face of prospects.
I silence the voice in my head
that wallows in gloom,
foresees only doom,
forever in existential dread.
I let her go. I free the girl
who feared closed doors
so much she never opened a window
and let the air in.
I spare her now
of protecting me within,
of self-sacrifice in the name of nice.
I unlock the cage I made,
decade after decade.
Say, roam free, little bird,
wings out, you can fly now.
Don’t bring yourself down.
You’re meant to soar high now.

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About Mila

I’m Mila. A mother of two. A Creative Director by a day, a writer of plays, poetry, films and fiction every spare moment I can find. My dream at this not so young age is to make writing and teaching of writing not just my creative life but my working life. Every sub and paid sub helps me get there.

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She Was Her Own Hero

The In Between

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Dance With The Trees

The In Between — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 10:01:25 GMT

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made a prompt about the forest and what the wilds conjure for us. For me? Freedom. With that in mind, I revisited this song from my witchy musical and brought it to life. This one goes out to any woman who prefers the companies of trees to certain men in their lives. More excerpts from the musical included below if you want to go all the way down the witch’s road…

Lyrics by me/music by Suno

Dance With Trees

Men are faithless.

Men are fools.

Weak and willful.

Makers of rules.

They will bind you, break you,

make you cry.

Whisper promises, that only die.

Why chance a man?

When you just can,

dance with a tree for eternity.

Trees are so rooted,

Trees are so kind,

bend to your winds,

ease troubled minds.

Why love men?

With all that they lack.

When there’s a wood,

that always gives back.

Fruit for the eating,

shading and sheltering,

listening like lovers,

company for hours,

dancing with fire,

kindling your powers.

Men have the body,

that much is true.

But trees have the heart,

trees ignite you.

More From Goodys and Baddies The Musical

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Rom-Coms That Raised Me

The In Between — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 10:02:20 GMT

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Romantic Comedies. We all have our own list of faves. All still waiting around for Ryan Gosling to run into the airport and stop us form getting on that flight. We technically know these grand gestures and epic romances won’t happen, but we can’t help but want it.

We’ve been groomed by a million movies to live in a fantasy world selling rampant commercialism, obsessive love and problematic life lessons. This poem is part homage to romcoms and part reality check.

Rom-Com

It started young,
the movie obsession,
naively thinking every film
would have real-life reflections.
Got plot-hooked on Now & Then,
movies a lifelong friend,
a place where shy girls in Sixteen Candles
or Grease didn’t hide with a book,
but got cool guys looking,
riding through Fast Times at Ridgemont High,
all those bad boys on my brain,
elder millennial sigh anytime I hear their name.

Wishing he’d say She’s All That about me,
giving me a yes instead of a Definitely, Maybe.
Maybe with a makeover and a cool friend,
the Mean Girls could see me as one of them,
and not just another Corpse Bride for Edward Scissorhands.
Dirty Dancing my way to prom with a Clueless boy,
who just want to get his Juno in my Lady Bird,
so he can tell the other guys about trying my American Pie.

The movies let me know How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,
just act like you’re in Love Actually when
all they want is some Sex and the City.
And they’ll find another Pretty Woman
who is okay with situationships for a price,
as long as she gets Breakfast at Tiffany’s, that guy was real nice.

After all, your 20s are there for being Moonstruck
by Crazy, Stupid, Love. only meant to last 500 Days of Summer cause his manic pixie dreams fades fast.

Meanwhile you’re still in love and
in La La Land and have no idea what it’s
like to be a widower in Sleepless in Seattle,
or a divorcee in When Harry Met Sally... your thirties still an alternate reality.

This Is 40 is not even in the queue yet,
You have your 30s still to regret,
every time you played Miss Congeniality,
to a man just looking for Showgirls.
Afraid to slip and end up a Mamma Mia!
before you were done having fun.

You got excited when You Got Mail,
but The Proposal was actually a scary
Being Bridesmaids at My Best Friend’s Wedding, proved that real love gets real hairy.
No, The Notebook doesn’t play in the big city.
You think you can Say Anything, with boombox in hand, but The Break-Up happens and you have no cheap apartment and no man.

There are no reunions, grand gestures,
airport runs, or surprise weddings to follow.
Every film promise proves exceptionally hollow, an illusion, delusion, foolish fever dream,
an IRL happy ending is harder than it seems.
To All the Boys I’ve Ever Loved that way,
I think the movies led me astray.

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The Years Are Short

The In Between — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 10:02:21 GMT

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The other day, I looked over at my kids on the other side of the table and thought, Where did my babies go? My eight-year-old is giving teenage vibes 24/7, and my six-year-old is outgrowing everything we put on him. Their baby feet almost fit into my shoes now. I truly feel like they were just born. Like I blinked, and newborns became boys.

I miss all their firsts, but I even miss the terrible moments because I know there are no repeats. I keep telling myself to slow down and really feel it, and hopefully this poem reminds you to do the same as well.

My VO Narration

The Years Are Short

They say the days are long but the years are short, they’re not wrong, I must report, you blink and think they were just born. Your heart walking outside your body, battered and torn. Those first nights are indeed a special kind of hell, the days a fever dream drenched in new baby smell.

There’s only one year of that milk drunk look, only a few weeks where they fit perfectly in your arm crook, only one time to hear that first Mom, and watch their first stumbling steps, only so many years of sticky hands left, only so many summers where they fall asleep, sun-kissed on your chest, so many school days where you’re still the best friend they ever had. A matter of seconds before they replace their mom and dad, with a whirlwind of school and classroom crushes and game day rushes.

When they ask mom to marry them and they only have eyes for dad. Where Band-aids can heal all the bad. Where they believe in Santa and Easter Bunnies and good beating evil every time. Only a short window where sprinklers and ice cream trucks ease their troubled minds.

Where Eskimo kisses have currency and every small snack request has epic urgency. Where your hugs make the night terrors go away. Where they insist “Daddy, please please stay.”

One more story, one more piggyback ride, one more cuddle, one more long snuggle trapped in this little wrinkle in time. Only so much time as a newborn, a baby, a toddler, a wild child shaking your world and breaking everything down.

A small window of onesies and tantrums and tripping over LEGOS and teddy bears. Of overcrowded family occasions where everyone is still there. So many “Are we there yets?” before they forget to call at all, so many tiny trickles in time where your kids are still small.

Small enough to believe in heroes soaring and pigs flying, small enough for a hug to heal their crying, small enough for you to be their whole world, small enough to just be your little boy and girl. And just like that, they’re all grown up, and all those long nights and rough days, didn’t seem like nearly enough.

If this moved you, do consider supporting the work through paid subs and I promise to continue to turn all the world (including Substack) into a stage for all voices.

About Mila

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A few custom pieces I’ve created for my Paid Subscribers. Put a lot of love in these to make them truly special for each person.

She Was Her Own Hero

The In Between

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What Trees See

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Commercialized

The In Between — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 10:02:31 GMT

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When I’m not writing on here, I work as a Creative Director in the ad biz. I’ve written a lot of taglines. None quite stuck like the ones I grew up on.

I’m also a spoken word poet, so I love a good found poem. I constructed this little one out of taglines, with a bit of an anti-commercial twist of course.

Commercialized

We’ve been force-fed our lives since the era of mass media,
yet we never felt in need of a break today or tomorrow
or after that because the real world went out of style after the second season,
now we just do it all the time,
and never ask the reason.
It doesn’t matter how bad it gets
because we’re good till the last drop.
So we’ll drop the bomb and carry on and never think about the lives at stake
or that it may be too late,
Cause in the end we’re worth it,
our minds are dead weight because we can’t express.
We do leave home without it because we’re used to caring less.
The world was too much with us at a time,
but the weight of the world is a heavy load
when standing in a checkout line.
So we just care about our share, seeking
better things for better lives through chemistry,
reshaping our bodies with the wonders of plastic,
digging the hole in our souls
until we just fall into the gap.
Why bother to remold our minds
if we only sometimes feel like a nut?
So we disregard and discard the fact that inequality,
quality is built into the fabric of our lives,
or that every institution has become a form of economic prostitution.
Does she or doesn’t she? Doesn’t matter.
See a diamond is forever,
even if you don’t stay together.
We grew up with MTV and pop stars,
and once you pop, you just can’t stop.
And why would you if there’s a quicker picker-upper?
Ignorance is the opiate of the masses, and yes, it is bliss.
If you can have it your way, who cares what happens overseas? Why do what you should when you can do what you please?
You’re everywhere you want to be. Who cares if that everywhere is on the couch watching TV?
Why would you obey your thirst for knowledge?
Why speak if the words just melt in your mouth?
And it’s not in your hands to make a change.
Just drink the Kool-Aid and taste the rainbow,
and any urge to think different will be a last thought.
With #hashtag sponsors you’re in good hands, so you go girl, sell yourself to some brands.

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About Mila

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A few custom pieces I’ve created for my Paid Subscribers. Put a lot of love in these to make them truly special for each person.

She Was Her Own Hero

The In Between

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What Trees See

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Game Night

The In Between — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 11:54:30 GMT

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The Worst Kind Of Animal

The In Between — Sat, 25 Jul 2026 10:01:36 GMT

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It started well and good. I spent a peaceful day working in my garden in the company of some lovely butterflies. Then I read a headline that sent me into a doom spiral. I didn’t plan to write this next one but a girl has gotta have her butterflies’ back.

The headline: “Trump rule modifies Endangered Species Act’s definition of ‘harm’”

The sad truth is: the most harmful animal of all has always been humans. Not because we are bigger or stronger, but because we don’t know when enough is enough. We take without giving back.

We are the only animal that does not respect the life cycle of nature, to the point of destroying entire species in our path.

For years, there has been slow and painful progress in designing laws to protect and preserve the environment and all that live in it. The passing of the Endangered Species Act was a central moment in starting to rectify decades of damage done.

And now that progress is being reversed and rapidly.

In the last week, there have been regulatory changes to reinterpret the Endangered Species Act’s definition of harm to not include habitats and demand that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service factor economic toll into any protection.

This is all part of President Donald Trump’s attempt to weaken protections for threatened plants and animals, putting animals like Florida manatees, sea turtles, monarch butterflies, gray wolves, pygmy rabbits and Canadian lynxes in very real risk.

More changes are expected in the coming weeks. The administration is also in the process of repealing a regulation that gives threatened species the same protections as endangered ones.

There is no legal reason to do this, no scientific reason to do this, and no public support for weakening the act. This is pure avarice at its worst, done with the cynicism that no one will look or notice until it’s too late. But there’s still time to pushback.

Frankly, I don’t want to live in a world where my future grandkids never chase a butterfly, do you?

The next poem looks at this news and asks who the real animal is.

More info on the effect of eliminating habitat protection.

The Worst Kind of Animals

The lynx would never think
to kill without eating.
The manatee would never
seek fame or acclaim.
The sea turtle moves slow,
for in a rush nothing is gained.
The monarch pollinates the world
and asks little in return, every role in an ecosystem well earned,
a life cycle preserved by every small part, our mutual survival ensured from the start.

And in turn, we too decide to protect.
Activists fought tirelessly to achieve one landmark act.

And then, just like that,
all that progress was erased,
in a profit-driven about-face.
Oil companies’ bottom line
now deciding an entire species’ fate,
Habitats once preserved
now facing a doomsday date.

The new rules redefine animal harm, so habitat destruction sounds no alarm.
It is indeed a cruel humanity
that chooses money over a manatee,
aquatic gardeners of the sea,
a gentle giant threatened by idiocracy.

The so-called God Squad,
deciding gas and oil
no longer needs to abide,
their spoils outweighing the spills
that kill the fish that we eat
and the waters that sustain us.
Each lawful reinterpretation
weakening protection for animals
at the most vulnerable intersection
between endangered and extinct,
animals once thriving, on the brink of not surviving.

This newfound predation is not natural.
Humans today prey for a payday.
They kill not to eat,
not for meat or clothes,
not for need, but for want.
Endless want haunts every habitat.
Humans are the worst kind of animals,
beasts by choice.

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She Was Her Own Hero

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What Trees See

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That Summer Heat

The In Between — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 10:01:58 GMT

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I’ve spent over 35 summers in New York now, and they have ranged from hot to scorching to almost unbearable.

Summers growing up, where we were afraid to turn on the air conditioning because it cost too much, summers of hand fans and sweaty stoops, and sprinklers as a godsend.

Summers in my grown-up backyard with my feet in a kiddie pool, kids playing with hose and even one summer way back when where I got trapped on the subway during a blackout, evacuated through the tunnels, and walked forty blocks home because the buses stopped running. People handing strangers free water on street corners.

The city brings the heat, the hustle continues and the locals grumble and bear it. If you are a city kid, summers just have a certain energy that you can’t replace.

I tried to capture it below.

That Summer Heat (My VO)

That Summer Heat

The sun scorches the city, side streets admit defeat,
sweltering in dead heat.
Every pole fire to the touch,
rainbow ices turned to mush.

Even street rats scatter,
desperate for shade,
from the lingering scorch
of late summer days.

Wet beads on cabbie lips,
hot dog vendors swelter,
street meat sizzles by itself.
The heat sticks to skin,
as commuters pour in.

Kids pray for release,
hydrants burst to meet
their feet, hoses pour
relief on pavement,
stray cats spared the burn, but not for long.

The old rich fly away,
escape on their jets,
drink rosé all day, while the new rich hide in sky towers at sunset,
as the poor suffer the sun.
They fan themselves
with paper plates, brows
drench napkins, sweat stains
good shirts, they share
hand fans in folding chairs,
beg passing clouds for rain.

The burning, blistering rays
follow them everywhere,
teasing and taunting them,
but the city does not dare
turn on apartment air.
Till they do,
and then… Armageddon.
Again.

The power goes out
as the city sleeps.
The Bronx goes black,
Queens melts into itself,
Brooklyn sweats together
on one sad patch of grass.
The city sun is unforgiving,
the cool respite ends,
the heat wave wins,
the locals sadly regret
letting the sun best them again.

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I'm Not Sorry

The In Between — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 10:00:32 GMT

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I said sorry more times than I can count. It’s almost instinctual to any people pleaser. Ingratiate yourself, apologize, fall on your sword so you can quickly make up and make things nice again.

I’ve apologized for my success, my knowledge, my feelings.

Frankly, I apologized for who I was again and again just to make people feel more comfortable. Just to be deemed socially acceptable by whatever arbitrary rules were thrown at me.

And I’m not the only one. Girls are taught to be sorry and say it all the time. By the time, we are women sorry comes naturally.

Psychologist Stephen Hinshaw noted the “impossible set of expectations” placed on girls as a root source of the overuse of apologies.

Hinshaw discovered a “triple bind” placed on girls. He found they are expected to be 1) compassionate and nurturing; 2) competitive and driven; and 3) desirable, and able to meet these expectations with little effort.

With this bind in mind, there’s almost always something to be sorry for in theory. Throw in the pressure to please and appease, and sorry becomes one of the most common words you hear from a woman. At work. At home. On the playground. We are always sorry.

And for what?

Here’s the interesting thing. Both men and women apologize for the exact same proportion of offenses they commit. Men are not less likely to apologize when they know they did something wrong; they simply classify fewer behaviors as wrong.

Maybe they should be more considerate but also maybe we could be more considerate of ourselves. Less sorry for just being.

Just because someone doesn’t like something you do, doesn’t mean you should be sorry for it. With that in mind, I wrote a poem about things I’m not sorry for, and I encourage you to cut your sorry list in half too. Feel free to add to the list.

I’m Not Sorry (My VO)

I’m Not Sorry

I’m not sorry, not for half of it.

I’m not sorry,
I spoke over that man,
when he repeated what I said.

I’m not sorry,
if you see passion
and hear an outburst instead.

I’m not sorry,
I clapped back
after I was attacked.

I’m not sorry,
I spoke up,
that story was incorrect.

I’m not sorry,
I said no, once, then again,
I decide what happens in my bed,
I’m not a plaything for men.

I’m not sorry,
I was too young then
and I’m not sorry that I’m old.

I’m not sorry,
for my low-cut dress,
I like the way it looks,
my tits are not a threat, and I don’t wear what I’m told.

I’m not sorry,
my yoga pants made you stare. I’m not sorry, for my body just being there.

I’m not sorry,
that my baby cried,
sorry for myself, yes,
but not for a rude stranger on an airplane ride.

I’m not sorry
for my kids’ fights,
they’re wild animals at this age,
untrained brains, we can only try to be polite.

I’m not sorry,
for human failures
or human frailty, for wanting human touch.

I’m not sorry,
I mixed up the lunchboxes because the kids were screaming and the world was too much.

I’m not sorry,
for the typos, my brain turns jello when I’m in a rush.

I’m not sorry,
for my imperfect punctuation, I’m not AI,
I’m human, at least mistakes don’t lie.

I’m not sorry,
for not getting you,
you also doesn’t get me.

I’m not sorry,
I laughed too loud, do you prefer my misery?

I’m not sorry,
for feeling feelings.
the heart wants what it wants.

I’m not sorry,
that I said it too blunt.

I’m not sorry,
for any of my premenstrual rage.

I’m not sorry,
I depicted you accurately on the page.

I’m not sorry,
I’m better at this than you.

I’m not sorry,
for getting paid my worth and wanting it too.

I’m not sorry,
for my woo woo or my medicated birth. I’m not sorry for taking up space, or being in your face.

I’m not sorry,
for offending the status quo,
it needed a stir,
might even need a go.

I’m not sorry,
even if you see me cry. I’m not sorry, that I asked you why

I’m not sorry,
I got the raise,
rose in the ranks.
got subscribers in the tank.

I’m grateful, I’m thankful,
I’m hopeful and happy,
but I’m not sorry anymore.

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She Was Her Own Hero

The In Between

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Caravan of Dreams

The In Between — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 10:03:53 GMT

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When I saw the grey world of Conor’s photo, I wondered how it got that way. This story came to me like a message in a bottle. From the Sunday Scaries prompt by and the merchant with a caravan prompt I was tagged in by (Not sure who started that one.)

The Caravan Of Dreams

The caravan arrived on a grey day. The days had been grey for weeks. No one questioned it. Not yet anyway. Sometimes it happens. The skies darken. The fog appears.

The villagers assumed it would pass.

All terrible things pass in one way or another.

The caravan did not seem unusual at first. If anything, it was shoddy. There once was a sign advertising wares but now it was lopsided, hanging from an errant nail. The text was almost unreadable.

The merchant did not look much better. She was blind in one eye, with the other one fading quickly. Her hair was long and grey, touching what one could assume were her knees, though it was hard to tell under her heavy cloak. Most of the merchant’s teeth were missing, the few left were gold.

She looked as if she had travelled the world over only to come back to the beginning. The old woman had the ragged energy of a collector, always one step behind her grand prize.

She set up shop in the village square, parking her jingling caravan for all to see, and started reciting a familiar refrain, “Step right up to the Caravan of Dreams.”

She opened the wooden panels to reveal every glass bottle, jar, and container you could imagine, each filled with a different colored smoke. Purple, blue and a glowing magenta. Each precisely labeled.

“Bottled dreams? What a con.” said the passing baker.

Most people didn’t even give her a second look. Only the most desperate and daring approached the caravan, hoping for an end to their nightmares or the beginning of a better life. They eyed the bottles with hearts thumping.

One man asked how much the jar labeled Courage cost. An old hag inquired about beauty. A young boy asked about desire.

The merchant shooed them all away. She was not here to sell.

No, she had plenty, having accumulated so many dreams along her travels, but she lacked one final one.

Something she had lost long ago. Something she wanted to strip from anyone who got the privilege of it as she went wanting.

She wanted hope.

And she was willing to pay a mighty price for it. Soon enough, some desperate souls found her and the usual exchanges were made.

One villager sold her his joy. She gave him eight shillings for the trade. Another hobbling man sold her his first love. He said he was finally ready to let go. She only offered him a shilling as the value had depleted with time and forgetfulness. These feelings were all fine and good. But she wanted hope.

As she pondered what sucker she could wrangle next, a drunk man tripped over himself, fingers pointing.

“How dare you?”

She smiled, bemused through her two teeth.

“How dare I what?”

“Take all that people have left.”

“I pay them good money for things they no longer want or need.”

He stumbled over his words and his steps.

“Who are you to decide?”

“Did I decide that coins were more valuable than love or strength? No, that was decided long before me. Me? I just bottle the stuff.”

“Well, I don’t want any of your money. You have nothing for me anyway.”

He made a grand exit waving his hands about.

The merchant paid him no mind, she had found the one she’s been looking for. A young boy, small and sickly. He was perfect.

The boy’s father approached cautiously.

“We thought you might have something in there that could make my boy well again. There must be some potion or lotion, something that could help.”

The merchant turned away starting to collect her bottles.

“I’m only buying.”

“Please,” the mother said begging.

The merchant smiled and turned to them.

“Let me look at him.”

She examined the boy and then looks to the mother,“You think he’ll survive.”

The mother holds the boy close to her skirt as if to cover his ears.

“He must. We can’t even afford a proper burial. He’s not ready to meet the Lord.”

The merchant shuts the caravan doors then spins around with an empty bottle in hand.

“I can’t sell you anything, but I can buy from you. I’ll give you enough coins for a funeral, with a little extra, so the boy can have a good meal. How would you like that?”

The boy looked up pleadingly at his mother. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“He hasn’t had a good meal for so long…nor have we.”

The boy looked up excitedly, his eyes weary but his lips turned up in a half smile. He nodded at his mother.

The merchant opened her palm to reveal coins in it.

“Ten shillings for your last hope.”

“Don’t do it!” the drunk screamed from behind his crates.

“Okay, we’ll sell.”

They always do.

And so the boy had his last meal and went to bed full for his last good dream, and never woke up.

And the merchant finally had what she wanted.

And with it, she rode off in her caravan into the grey fog. Up above the sun shone one very last time, showing its soon to be forgotten face.

The merchant had gone and done it, collected all the hope in the world. Everyone would only have grey days from now on.

Just like her.

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We Call On Diana

The In Between — Tue, 21 Jul 2026 10:01:00 GMT

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We are told to wait. We are told justice will be served, while the stories of victims fall on deaf ears. To this day, more women have been jailed for abortions than men on Epstein’s list.

When the victims met with Todd Blanche, he dismissed them. He evaded. He condescended, checking the box of listening without hearing their stories. No true promises were made.

Meanwhile, women serve longer sentences for killing their abusers than the men who kill them serve. The justice system doesn’t serve the women of this country. And it will not, without protest.

Women cannot stand down. We cannot demur. The fiercest creatures have always been mothers, have always been women protecting the young: the mama bear, the tiger, the she-wolf. Women are not just gatherers, we are hunters.

In these times, we need to channel Diana, the goddess of the hunt, and pierce wrongdoers with the arrows of truth. We must howl. We must fight dirty. The girls, the abused women, the children need all of us by their side.

The huntress is within us. Let’s call on Diana and let’s fight.

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music by Suno, lyrics by me

We Call On Diana

In every era, since the dawn of time,

The greatest danger to girls

was the men by their side,

Again and again , they commit the same crime,

innocence ripped through the fabric of time,

the children and women cry into the night,

the predators roamed, the prey in their sights.

They looked up to the moon and prayed for a savior,

a heroine to sway the odds in their favor,

A huntress to bring barbarians to their knees,

Oh Diana, Diana, come save us please.

Diana’s a goddess, but she’s not demure,

Diana’s chaste, she protects the pure,

Diana’s a wild thing, a Venus flytrap.

You put hands where they don’t belong,

Diana claps back.

She protects the virgins

The mothers in birth

any that degrade them

shall meet the dirt.

There once was a maiden so young and fair,

with big doll eyes and long raven hair,

she ventured to town, to just look around,

a virgin who didn’t know hero from hound,

the soldiers they ravaged , an unwilling feast,

esteemed generals quickly turned beasts.

She was the first, but she wasn’t the last,

other maidens learned her lesson real fast,

Under the moon, they met by the lagoon,

the maidens prayed for Diana to slay,

the men that broke new girls every day.

We call on Diana,

feral and fierce,

to hunt down defilers,

her arrows to pierce

the hearts of the wicked

and make the bad bleed

the powerful paying

gravely for their misdeeds.

She appeared from above,

with a stag by her side.

a killer with a bow,

a lady of the wild.

Left a pile of men defenseless,

drowning in blood,

and the pride of the senseless,

cause enough was enough.

The girl was only fourteen,

hardly a woman yet,

just a child with a dream,

till the men that she met,

they offered an escape,

on a jet and boat,

she believed the bad men,

took their word as an oath.

They drugged her and beat her,

forced her into silence,

every protest met with more and more violence.

They were captains of industries,

titans of tech, all the president’s men,

at a child stood erect, trapped on an island,

where no one could see,

the girls had no exits and nowhere to flee.

We call on Diana our protector again,

to wage a new battle with brutal end,

cause the warrants aren’t written,

and jails have no bounds, for the

wealthy heeled monsters, still walk

hallowed ground, they smile big

on screens , parading both aisles,

stand on the stage, while we simmer

with righteous rage.

They came on their ships,

They fly on their jets,

They pillaged the village,

They rape without regret,

There’s always been raiders,

there’s always been thieves,

there’s always been animals,

masking as men,

with holy robes and suits finely hemmed,

There’s always been husbands

and brothers turned brutes,

but none are a match,

for a bow aimed at truth.

Diana never missed a man on her hunt,

Her eyes always sharp, her arrow is blunt,

So watch out all you men on that list,

Fear women with justice on their lips,

for just like Diana, they will not miss.

We call on Diana to give us her powers,

To fortify us in these desperate hours,

She is in us, we now don her furs,

We become avengers just like her,

We are not victims,

we won’t go unnamed,

We don’t hide in shadow,

we don’t sink in shame,

we are survivors,

warriors forged from our pain,

we are street fighters,

huntress blood in our veins.

We call on Diana to feed fire with flame,

to summon the moon to guide us in war,

to gather the wolves

,as bears ram through doors,

we call on Diana as we even the score.

We call on Diana

feral and fierce

to hunt down defilers

her arrows to pierce.

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COVEN Live with The In Between

The In Between — Tue, 21 Jul 2026 00:01:19 GMT

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URSULA

The In Between — Mon, 20 Jul 2026 10:24:38 GMT

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URSULA

Case File By

Name: Ursula

Occupation: Voice ‘Coach’

Affliction: Parental Neglect, Seasonal Depression

History: Daddy issues/Merman Envy

Therapist: Let’s start where we left off: your childhood.

Ursula: It was the usual. Summers at the shore. Boarding school at the bottom of the sea. A week on a sunken shipwreck for the holidays.

Therapist: Not where and when, I want you to tell me how you felt.

Ursula: Felt?

Therapist: Yes. For example, when they shipped you off to boarding school at the bottom of the sea, how did that make you feel?

Ursula: I don’t have those things.

Therapist: Everyone has feelings.

Ursula: Well, no one asked. So I didn’t develop them.

Therapist: I’m asking.

Ursula: Father said little girls were to be seen, not heard. My brother’s opinion was the only one that mattered.

Therapist: You matter.

Ursula: If you must know, I hated boarding school. I hated the shore. Hated sunken shipwreck buffets. Not that it mattered. Nothing I say ever matters.

Therapist: And how does that make you feel?

Ursula: You talk too much. But I do like your twang. What would you trade it for?

Therapist: Well... I don’t need anything.

Ursula: I see you went to community college in Bayonne.

Ursula: What if I gave you a pedigree for your voice? How would that make you feel? Like a big conch shell of a man? Like a head honcho? Bet you wish you had a bigger plaque.

Therapist: This is very inappropriate.

Ursula: The thing about nobody listening is you get really good at seeing what people really want.

Therapist: (hesitates, then sizes up his plaque) Maybe, just for one week.

Ursula: You poor thing. Mama’s gonna make it feel all better.

Poetic Journal Entry

They say

I steal voices.

If only they knew

how willingly

people surrender them.

For love.

For approval.

For a seat

at someone else’s table.

I’ve watched

countless hearts

mistake silence

for devotion.

The shells

never lie.

Hold one

against your ear,

and it will tell you

the last sentence

someone swallowed

before becoming

who they believed

they had to be.

I keep them.

Not as trophies.

As echoes.

There are voices

that disappeared

long before

they ever reached me.

Sometimes,

late at night,

I lift a shell

to my ear

and listen

to everything

the sea

refused

to forget.

Today,

a young girl

placed her voice

in my hands.

She called it

love.

I almost told her

its real name.

Instead,

I handed her

the contract.

Some truths

cannot

be spoken.

They can only

echo.

One like. One comment. One Restack.

That’s all it takes to keep these stories going.

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Past Case Files And Intro

small wounds

QUEEN OF HEARTS

QUEEN OF HEARTS…

18 days ago · 70 likes · 28 comments · Kasu (small wounds) and The In Between

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I have a burning desire to create, and a dream to make a living off it.

With love, Kasu

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WFH The Musical

The In Between — Sun, 19 Jul 2026 10:00:59 GMT

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A little throwback TikTok Musical for you on this fine Saturday.

When we first started working from home during the pandemic, none of us were equipped. We didn’t have the set up. We didn’t have childcare. We didn’t know how to not be in an office.

Working from home was kind of a pain. So I turned those painpoints into a TikTok musical. And since pretty much all of Broadway was not working at the time, I got some real deal talent to be in it with the help of my co-creator and composer Henry Aronson.

We assembled a crew of very talented singers from New York to Florida to participate for free and support the Path Fund for actors along the way to get musicians back on Broadway when in returned.

We even got Broadway's Harry Potter to sing about his butt and a little bit of local TV airtime. Not bad for an ode to breastfeeding and pantless meetings.

BTW I now very much enjoy working from home.

The Full Musical

SOME LYRICAL HIGHLIGHTS

THE BOSS

THIS IS YOUR BOSS

AND, YES, I’M WEARING LIP GLOSS.

I STILL GET DRESSED!

I’M NOT A TOTAL HOT MESS.

YES, THAT’S A CHILD STUCK ON MY TIT.

IF HE’S NOT SUCKING IT HE THROWS A SHIT FIT!

LOOK AT THE NUMBERS ON THAT CHART,

WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? A BABY FART!

KEEP YOUR CHIN UP, ALSO YOUR EYES,

BUSINESS IS GROWING, BUT NOT AS FAST AS MY THIGHS.

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME

YOU’RE NEVER, NEVER, NEVER,

NEVER, EVER, EVER ALONE.

INTERN

I’M JUST AN INTERN,

BUT I’VE GOT LOTS TO SAY.

BIG OPINIONS, BIG COMMENTS IN CHAT,

JUST DON’T LOOK THIS WAY!

I’M NOT WEARING PANTS UNDER MY BLAZER.

MOM JUST WALKED IN, IT DIDN’T FAZE HER.

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, NEVER, NEVER,

NEVER, EVER, EVER ALONE.

BOSS

THIS IS YOUR BOSS

AND, YES, I’M WEARING LIP GLOSS.

I STILL GET DRESSED!

I’M NOT A TOTAL HOT MESS

YES, THAT’S A CHILD STUCK ON MY TIT.

INTERN

I’M JUST AN INTERN

BUT I’VE GOT LOTS TO SAY.

BIG OPINIONS, BIG COMMENTS IN CHAT.

IF HE’S NOT SUCKING IT HE THROWS A SHIT FIT.

KEEP YOUR CHIN UP,

ALSO YOUR EYES.

BUSINESS IS GROWING

BUT NOT AS FAST AS MY THIGHS!

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, NEVER, NEVER,

NEVER EVER, EVER ALONE.

FRED FROM FINANCE

HI, FRED FROM FINANCE!

STILL NEEDING THAT TIME SHEET

WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE.

TOMORROW IS FINE,

JUST DROP ME A LINE

TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN.

I DON’T HAVE ANY FAMILY OR FRIENDS.

NO ONE TO TALK TO AT NIGHT.

EVEN MY CAT JUST PRETENDS,

HE’S JUST BEING POLITE!

I LIVE IN A SCREEN AND A PHONE

BUT WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, EVER, EVER ALONE.

JUST DON’T LOOK THIS WAY!

THE INTERN

I’M NOT WEARING PANTS

UNDER MY BLAZER.

MOM JUST WALKED IN,

IT DIDN’T FAZE HER.

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, NEVER, NEVER,

NEVER EVER, EVER ALONE.

OFFICE SERVICES

ALWAYS WORKING FROM ZOOM,

IT’S NOT ALL DOOM AND GLOOM,

‘CAUSE THERE’S WINE.

I’VE BEEN DRINKING SINCE NOON,

NOW IT’S NINE.

I’M IN HEAVEN

HAPPY HOUR IS

TWENTY FOUR SEVEN.

FRED! HOW IS YOUR FAM?

MY HUSBAND JUST LEFT ME

FOR OUR BEST MAN.

HOME SCHOOLING’S DEFEATING,

IF I’M LONELY I CALL A LATE MEETING.

I LIVE IN A SCREEN AND A PHONE

BUT WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, EVER, EVER ALONE.

JOHN NUMBER 2

HEY YOU, IT’S ME “JOHN NUMBER 2”.

I’M JUST THAT GUY THAT SAT NEXT TO YOU.

DON’T MEAN TO PRY, BUT NOTICED YOUR SCREEN.

I’M ALSO SEARCHING FOR A BUTT CREAM.

MIGHT I SUGGEST A WORK-FROM-HOME CHAIR?

I WOULDN’T PRY IF I DIDN’T CARE…

‘BOUT YOUR DERRIERE.

THERE’S A LOTION, A GEL AND A FOAM.

THOUGH YOU WORK FROM HOME,

YOU’RE NEVER, EVER ALONE.

JOHN NUMBER 2

HOPE YOU DON’T THINK

THAT I’M BEING RASH.

OR TOO MUCH OF A PAIN IN THE ASS.

SORRY!

I’M HERE AT MY WORK STATION.

IN CONSTANT IRRITATION.

I NEED CORTISONE,

I NEED CORTISONE

THOUGH YOU WORK FROM HOME

THOUGH WE WORK FROM HOME

WE’RE NEVER, EVER

HELEN FROM HR

HELEN STILL HERE, THE ONE FROM HR

WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER,

CLOSE FROM AFAR.

WHEN I CHECK IN

ALL OF US WIN

I FEEL YA, GIRLFRIEND!

HOW IS YOUR DOG — YOUR CAT?

HOW IS YOUR JOB?

HOW THE HELL IS IT MONDAY?

DO YOU STILL THROB FROM THAT THING ON YOUR BUTT?

I’M REACHING OUT TO YOUR DELICATE ZONE.

THOUGH YOU WORK FROM HOME.

THOUGH YOU WORK FROM HOME

THOUGH WE WORK FROM HOME,

WE’RE NEVER, EVER

WHAT’S HER NAME

AM I UNCLEAR? AM I ON MUTE?

AM I JUST WEIRD? TELL ME THE TRUTH!

DOES ANYBODY HEAR ME?

JUST WANT A BODY NEAR ME

I’D EVEN TAKE THAT GUY FROM I.T.

IT GUY

Hello?

WHAT’S HER NAME

SOMEBODY PLEASE, ACKNOWLEDGE ME!

HERE IS MY DECK, RIGHT ON DISPLAY.

I MADE A FONT, TOOK ME THREE DAYS!

DID YOU SEE MY COMMENTS? GET MY TEXT?

DID YOU EVEN NOTICE MY DRESS?

WON’T ANYBODY THROW ME A BONE?

‘CAUSE I WORK FROM HOME,

AND I’VE NEVER, EVER, EVER,

NEVER, EVER FELT SO ALONE.

IT GUY

THIS IS I.T.

No, my video’s not broken.

WON’T TURN ON MY CAM.

I have my reasons, OK?

IF YOU MUST KNOW,

And I don’t know that you must…

CLOTHES DON’T MAKE THE MAN.

Now, what’s your problem?

WHAT’S HER NAME

Every time I try to…

IT GUY

JUST TURN IT OFF, RESTART IT AGAIN.

DOWNLOAD THIS APP, DON’T OPEN SPAM!

I like your dress! Kinda, y’know, but classy! Just gimme a sec here.

THERE’S A NEW TRAINING

THAT YOU DIDN’T DO.

GOOD THING YOU CAN’T SEE ME, BUT I’M WATCHING YOU.

LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW,

AND I’LL BE THAT DRONE.

I’M KEEPING BUSY,

HOLDING MY OOOOOWN...

OOH, THAT’S A LITTLE BETTER,

BETTER GETTING OFF ALL ALONE.

I don’t think I like this.

I don’t.

THOUGH YA GOTTA WORK FROM HOME,

YOU MIGHT BE BETTER,

EVEN BETTER OFF ALL ALONE.

IT GUY

JUST TURN IT OFF,

RESTART IT AGAIN

DOWNLOAD THIS APP.

DON’T OPEN SPAM!

THERE’S A NEW TRAINING

THAT YOU DIDN’T DO.

YOU CAN’T SEE ME,

BUT I’M WATCHING YOU.

WHAT’S HER NAME

AM I UNCLEAR? AM I ON MUTE?

AM I JUST WEIRD TELL ME THE TRUTH!

DOES ANYBODY HEAR ME?

JUST WANT A BODY NEAR ME.

I’D EVEN TAKE THAT GUY FROM IT.

SOMEBODY PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE ME!

LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW

AND I’LL BE THAT DRONE.

YOU MAY WORK FROM HOME,

WON’T ANYBODY THROW ME A BONE?

‘CAUSE I WORK FROM HOME.

CHOIR

WE WORK TOGETHER WHEN WE’RE ON TEAMS,

WORKING AT HOME WORKS LIKE A DREAM.

IF YOU FEEL NO SACRIFICE BEING CHAINED TO YOUR DEVICE

YOU MUST BE IN PARADISE RIGHT ABOUT NOW!

OUR TECH CONNECTS US AND WE SLAVE AWAY,

WORKING ALL NIGHT, AND ALL FREAKING DAY.

(CHOIR)

IF YOU FEEL NO HESITANCE WORKING FROM YOUR RESIDENCE

UNDERLINGS TO PRESIDENTS, ANSWER THE CALL

AND HIT “REPLY ALL”!

CHOIR

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

HELEN?

TRYIN’ TO GO WITH THE WORKFLOW.

FRED

DROWNING IN THE UNDERTOW.

BOSS?

THERE’S NO QUIET AND NO PEACE,

WHAT’S HER NAME?

THERE’S NO REST AND NO RELEASE,

IT GUY

MAYBE YOU MIGHT THINK SO…

BOSS

IT’S A TOTAL SHITSHOW!

INTERN

NEVER GET TO GO TO BED

FRED

HAVEN’T SHOWERED IN WEEKS,

SOMETHING REEKS --

SOMEONE’S ALWAYS IN YOUR HEAD.

FRED

IS THAT ME OR THE LITTERBOX?

OFFICE SERVICES

I CAN HARDLY STAND OR SPEAK,

HELEN FROM HR

BUT TAKING BREAKS IS FOR THE WEAK.

ALL

WE CAN SLEEP WHEN WE’RE DEAD!

CHOIR

WORK FROM HOME, IT’S THE LIFE WE CHERISH.

THOUGH WE MAY WELL PERISH, WE WILL NEVER ROAM!

THO’ WE GO BERSERK

WE’LL NOT SHY NOR SHIRK.

WE’RE AT HOME AT WORK!

WE WORK FROM HOME!

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME,

WHEN YOU WORK FROM HOME.

If this moved you, do consider supporting the work through paid subs and I promise to continue to turn all the world (including Substack) into a stage for all voices.

I’m Mila. I’m 41. A mother of two. A Creative Director by a day, a writer of plays, poetry, films and fiction every spare moment I can find. My dream at this not so young age is to make writing and teaching of writing not just my creative life but my working life. Every sub and paid sub helps me get there.

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The Right Guy. Wrong Time.

The In Between

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She Was Her Own Hero

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The State Of The Disunion

The In Between — Sat, 18 Jul 2026 10:02:41 GMT

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No intro this time the new cycle speaks for itself.

State Of The Disunion

The State Of Disunion

The state of the union is fractured,

divided where we once united,

rights falling like shattered glass,

bloody feet walking on eggshells,

afraid to say anything,

that anyone will distort,

our every hate and like into a stat.

We are a number to manipulate,

a quota to report, contort,

extort everything out of us,

we watch our words to prevent attack,

the trolls swarming social feeds,

the people daring not fight back.

News shilling propaganda as truth,

our seas to shining seas,

now sludge, swampy with waste,

we choke on unregulated air,

eat poisonous greens,

we doubt our medicine,

swallow red pills of dread instead.

Smog burning our lungs,

as immigrant fathers die at the hands

of too often wrongly mistaken guns,

homes charred, as wildfires chase us,

the laws seeking to erase us,

if our love doesn’t fit into an old book,

if our gender can’t be assigned,

if we want to control our own body,

women jailed for paid sex and life-saving abortion.

While men jet set to islands built for abuse,

and continue to walk free, run loose,

all the presidents’ men make the list,

and yet their crimes persist.

While the poor rot in jails built

on wrong place, wrong time,

wrong face, wrong race.

The huddled masses hide from ICE,

as children duck under desks,

drilled to anticipate death,

the powers that be waging distant wars,

in the name of oil, money, and owed debts,

all invested in the highs and lows

of a crypto cryptic war machine market.

Our election defrauded,

and the criminal billionaires applauded,

with contracts and contacts

with foreign masters of the universe.

Back home, there’s no new jobs,

real people robbed by AI and bottom lines,

soaring consumer prices,

corporate-funded vices.

A people stand divided,

by those who have food and not,

who have homes and not,

have hope and not.

This is how democracy rots,

from the inside, divided by pride,

by factions of red and blue,

by the easier answer, of them and you.

Somewhere the Liberty Bell forgot how to ring,

somewhere America the Beautiful

became too ugly to sing.

Somewhere the brave and free,

hang their heads in shame,

for what they were forced to do,

in their country’s name.

How long have we gone

without basic human dignity?

That we can’t even recall the shape of it.

Justice for all, a lost refrain from our lips,

freedom now slipping from our fingertips.

How did we get here?

So many of us, living in fear,

so many of us, knowing only scarcity,

so many of us, so quickly forgetting,

we were once a beacon on a hill.

In this avalanche of avarice

and a landslide of greed,

in a nation where some have it all,

while others die of need.

How can one Liberty Bell toll?

For a nation with a divided soul.

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Loss After Love Poems

The In Between — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 10:00:22 GMT

I want to build beautiful communities on Substack, all sharing their voices loudly and proudly. Support me and my first duo of live poets below.

Sub Mila

Sub Vianne

Sub Damien

As part of launching Live Poets Society I promised to share my voice to make others comfortable sharing their ones.

After and took the stage competing in a battle on love, lust and limerence, we all decided to collaborate on a new shared poem for loss together.

Below is the shared poem and a clip from the performance. I was cut off at the end there but I included the link to the full video for anyone interested.

If you want to be a voice on the next Live Poets Society night just send a DM my way.

The Loss After Love Poems

Mila

You came in hot,

you had to have me,

I was a prize,

you grabbed me gladly,

You promised everything,

Your love a bomb,

your desire atomic,

my heart a casualty,

in your bloody palm.

You pulled me in,

then pushed me away,

you were night taking over,

the bright of my day,

Your dark ate up my light,

every word a fight.

You said I’d hurt you,

yet somehow I’m bruised,

You said I’d break you,

yet somehow I feel used,

Your cold shoulder,

made me needy,

Your wants,

became my noose,

You gave me breadcrumbs,

I ate them up,

Forgot to fill my own cup.
Sought your fire,

forgot I was water.

A little lamb,

begging for slaughter.

You kept a distance,

a game to win,

your heart grew further,

as I gave in.

They always want me,

when I shine,

Can’t get enough,

the first few times.

I call to much, I text a mess,

I’m no good time girl,

I’m just more stress.

They always love me

at the start,

the idea of me,

but not the real,

fragile parts.

Vianne

I want to shake you

for breaking me

I’m dissolving don’t you see

as you’ve combusted ‘we’

into fragments of per chance,

no romance

life looked different with you

on the back of my eyelids

now blackout

sheets twisted from where we collided,

our map of the hunger no longer

once shared,

now who cares ?

my skin remembers the way you tasted

space in the dark

between longing hearts

I trace the faint shadow of your teeth on my shoulder

a bruising reminder

as the heat in the room grows colder,

breathing you in is like breathing bitter air.

I howl from the ache

the pulse where your fingers would linger

ghost of the shiver you left on my thigh

you pulled me apart with a touch

I felt high, then low

why did you go?

rung out

left me to die - metaphorically

death of the “you” and the “I.”

desire is a weapon that cuts me from the inside,

a beautiful torment of velvet and steel

I’m tangled in memories

where we used to hide

still burning from marks that will take years to heal

I’ll always love you I know in my bones

I’ll always be grateful for the path I’ve been shown

the stars and planets

the coal and the gold

may they magic together to make

this broken heart whole

Damien

There’s a place I go

it’s a place I know

a safe space I flow

this safe space I row

and I row

it used to be you that I know

now the flow goes away

just like you go astray

there were days

I thought we’d never change

the sun’s rays

beamed down Monday

to Sunday

and one day

my fear became reality

you disappeared

it was tragedy

from what seemed magically

had appeared, haven’t we

had the weeks

the months, the years

to have a we

that can stand the test of time?

was blessed in mind

until that time

you decided to decide

this was it

so much time

turned to torn script

ripped a heart to shit

swift my art was pissed

exclaimed by Dame

my brain insane

heartbreak for days

art ached in ways

I never knew

a song could cry

I never knew

what’s strong could die

but it did, and I hid

in a mist of abyss

wasn’t fit for this shit

I was shit for a bit

I couldn’t write

I wouldn’t like

every night, it died

again and again

the sin of my sin
I give in again

and when I give in

my sin wins again

goodbye to what died.

Mila

I hate you.

Vianne

I’ll always love you

Damien

We were never meant to be

Together

You think you won, but that was a battle.

You think you shook us, we stand unrattled.

You treated love like it was war.

You didn’t know, we kept score.

We’re bruised, but also stronger.

You can’t hurt us any longer.

The Loss After Love Poems Live

The Full Live Poets Society Night

Live Poets Society

The In Between — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 00:09:49 GMT

Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning into my live video with and ! Join me for my next live video in the app.

Available for iOS and Android

One Thing That Doesn't Suck

The In Between — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 10:00:33 GMT

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Buy Me A Pie

It’s been a rough few weeks all around. Whenever the news, the world or the day gets me down, I try to think about what makes me grateful.

Then to keep the good feelings going, I get hyper specific. Look for the smallest pockets of joy I can find and hone in on them. Below is a very detailed list of ltitle things that don’t suck in poetic form.

I very much hope you add to my not shit list and maybe even tag some friends that need a pick-me-up to something that will give them a small pocket of joy.

My VO

One Thing That Doesn’t Suck

When the world is full of gloom,

and your life is only doom,

when you feel stuck,

I invite you to think of one small thing,

just one thing that doesn’t suck.

I’ll start, but please do your part,

dog and cat friends,

kids playing pretend,

warm blankets, soft cuddles,

jumping in muddy puddles.

Cheese. Any kind. Any time.

A beach beer with lime.

Dimples when he smiles.

Falling in a leaf pile.

Fresh sheets on bare skin.

A mini golf win.

Touching grass.

A toddler with adult sass.

Scratching a bad itch.

A kid throwing out a first pitch.

Cold water on a hot day.

The old croon of ‘I Did It My Way’

Warm towels on your face.

A name you can finally place.

A nice new pen and a blank page.

Lights up on a dark stage.

Ice cream, whipped cream, heavy cream.

Waking up from a sex dream.

Dancing till your stomach hurts.

Fingernails digging in dirt.

Animals in the clouds.

Screaming really, really loud.

The smell of baking bread.

That song still in your head.

A big fat cry.

Finally knowing why.

Old book smell. A wave swelling.

Trees after rain. Fancy trains.

Her neck. His nook.

Friends sharing a knowing look.

A good hair day, a week’s pay,

breakfast for dinner, being a winner,

in any game, really,

waking up with the sun,

the end of a long run.

Old hands holding young,

an encore, just for fun,

butterflies, the stomach kind,

funny street signs,

feeling high, warm apple pie,

eating apple pie while high.

an old show with characters you know,

a long breath out, chocolate on the corners

of a kid’s mouth, belly laughs,

making it there just on time,

things that rhyme, last call,

that first kiss, finishing a really

really long list.

If this moved you, do consider supporting the work through paid subs and I promise to continue to turn all the world (including Substack) into a stage for all voices.

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She Was Her Own Hero

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He Ate My Heart

The In Between — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 10:01:57 GMT

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returned with another heady prompt, about possessing a heart of another. I took the sentiment and went a little out of left field with it, creating a disco punk rock ballad. Why? Why not.

This piece is inspired by all the ways we lose ourselves in controlling relationships, our identities, our friendships, our entire sense of self sometimes. Sometimes even disappearing altogether in our attempts to keep someone. It’s almost as if people don’t just break our hearts, they devour them.

Lyrics by Me/Music By Suno. Best experience sound on.

Ate My Heart

I met a boy and he liked me,

I fell for him immediately,

served up my heart,

on a plate.

I was all his

from our first date.

Oh he was so fine,

and I would do anything,

anything to make him mine.

Oh that boy,

he was nice,

He’d make any girl,

a willing sacrifice.

Started so magic,

ended so tragic,

part by part,

that boy, he ate my heart.

Ate my heart, ate my heart.

I stopped texting my ex,

my family abandoned next,

gave up all my bestest friends,

he said they were pretend.

That job I had, what was it for?

When I had him at my front door.

He gave me flowers,

I gave him keys,

he was a god,

prayed on my knees.

Started so magic,

ended so tragic,

part by part,

that boy,

he ate my heart.

Ate my heart.

I gave him all I had to give,

til I had nothing let

to live for.

Day by day, I’d fade away,

a shadow of the girl he met,

now only fear, loathing and regret

he gave me breadcrumbs

for every meal.

Soon I forget how love should feel.

Until one day, I lost it all.

Guess that’s what happens

when you fall..in love.

First went my pride

and then my joy,

my self respect,

lost for that boy.

Started so magic,

ended so tragic,

part by part,

that boy, he ate my heart.

Ate my heart. Ate my heart.

If this moved you, do consider supporting the work through paid subs and I promise to continue to turn all the world (including Substack) into a stage for all voices.

My paid subs get personal custom pieces, long forms and chat posting access.

Upgrade

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A few custom pieces I’ve created for my Paid Subscribers. Put a lot of love in these to make them truly special for each person.

The Right Guy. Wrong Time.

The In Between

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She Was Her Own Hero

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3 Years Old

The In Between — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 10:47:11 GMT

I wasn’t planning on writing this one but I saw a headline that just ripped me to shreds about a father fatally shot by ICE in front of his daughter, still in her pajamas.

Thinking of this little girl learning this harsh life lesson so early, in her most innocent years, broke my heart. And for what?

This carelessness, this cruelty, all to meet a quota. No three year old should ever experience this. No daughter should ever witness this.

We need to get the soul of this country back. If not for us, for our children.

3 years old
At 3, you learn to sort
At 3, she learned separation
At 3, you learn happy, mad, sad
At 3, she learned sad, sad, sad
At 3, you learn to count to five
At 3, she learned one less
At 3, you learn to search
At 3, she’ll learn to look for him
At 3, you learn to ask why,
At 3, she learns why me
At 3, you learn time passes
At 3, she’ll know time won’t turn back
At 4, you learn to spell dad
At 4, she already know how to spell dead

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