Milly Taylor Creative

Turn all the things unsaid into poetry.
Let them out of you and throw them to the wind like dust. Make it beautiful.

What would you say if you weren’t afraid? 🤍







Full poem:

You got way too comfortable
being careless with me.
Let’s not rewrite reality:
my cardinal sin was
making you the epicenter of my world
while you treated me like a waiting room.
So tell the truth for once—
did you ever actually want me?
Or were you just addicted to the heat
of the fire I built,
basking in my devotion
just to keep the frost off your own hollow chest?
Were you looking for something real,
or just a human tourniquet
to stave the bleeding of your emptiness?
Are you genuinely confused,
or just shaking in your boots
at the terrifying prospect of someone
actually loving you right?
If consistency gives you vertigo—
if the thought of a steady hand
scares you more than the thought
of losing me entirely—
get the f**k out of my way.
Treat me like I’m nothing.
Watch how fast I turn into v***r.
I’ll vanish so cleanly from your perimeter
you’ll spend your quiet hours
wondering if I was ever even made of flesh and bone.
I’m done translating your excuses.
I read the blueprints in your patterns,
and the architecture is rotting.
I invest where the soil is rich with mutuality,
not in the graveyard of your potential.
And don’t mistake this cold drop in my chest for rage.
Rage is a luxury; rage means I still care enough to fight for you.
This is clinical, razor-sharp clarity.
I am staring at the ledger,
tallying the brutal cost of pouring myself into a void,
and realizing my spirit is fundamentally allergic to your ignorance.
So keep it.
Bathe in it. Drown in it.
Keep every lonely piece of your own making.
This doesn’t reflect the empire I’m building.
This isn’t the altar for my devotion.
This is not where my wild,
dark,
feral softness belongs….
Lyrical Gangsta

Dear Love,

I still believe in you...🥰

because you are steeped deep into my marrow,
still salty and untamed in my hair,
glistening softly in my eyes,
and blooming quietly from my heart.

I still wish for more of you
in my life,
in the quiet corners of the world—
for the people, the ancient trees, the wild oceans,
and all our shared creatures.

But mostly, I wish there was more love FOR YOU.

Wandering far from you, estranged, we travel blindly,
weary and whispering soft lies to ourselves,
as if you aren't the very breath
in everything we draw inward,
everything we live for,
and the tender, unbreaking hands that hold you as we go from this place ....

Dear love, I still believe in you
because we are you.

❤️❤️

Get real.

Look straight into your own soul and cut the s**t.

What seed did you bury in the dirt
that still wakes you with thorns at dawn?
Who convinced you your sacred darkness was a monster to fear,
instead of the wild roar that calls you home?
If your scars could talk,
would they breathe poetry or bare witness?
How much of your “fierce grace” is just a stage built
for ghosts who never gave a f**k about you anyway?

What if your inner child is still curled into the dark
because every time you reach for them,
you hand them a task list
instead of coloured paints and a blank canvas?
How many seasons have you hidden your loneliness
in the robes of “fiercely independent,”
just to stifle the ache
that you are truly wishing for someone to float naked with you in the ocean that is love?

Do you actually crave the jewels of the wild,
or just a pretty golden chain
fastened so gently it feels like devotion?
How many times have you mistaken the heat of being wanted
for the fire of being seen?
How many times have you endured the storm,
called it loyalty,
and lost pieces of yourself to the frostbite of realizing you were standing in that blizzard alone?

What happens if you stop turning your wounds into chains
and let your untamed joy
run barefoot across your life?

What would you sing if your voice stopped shaking
at the shame from your mother’s judgment,
the shadow of your father’s failures,
or the fear that the gods might hear you and answer your prayers?

What do you wish for?

Stop running from yourself.
Stop lying to your own heart.
Everything you are terrified of wanting
is buried beneath….

Keep digging.

Be so for real!

The truest freedom doesn’t live in the edits.
It waits for you to step completely out of the script—
and finally, fiercely,
be true to you.