I wish to retreat,
perhaps to a cabin in the woods,
or, like Iris Murdoch’s hero,
to settle near the sea…

It has been so long
since I have felt true solitude.
I long for that silence
that only it can bring
to sit in stillness
and listen to my own thoughts,
to cook only for myself
and savor each single bite,
untouched by the street’s noise
that might disturb
my quiet comfort.

It began in silence,
The kind that bruises,
The kind that teaches you
How pain can wear a smile.

It wasn't pretty like the movies
It was ugly
Like what they did to me
A cruelty
I would never place
On anyone's skin.

Bt even broken
I gather myself
Rising from what tried to end me
Proofing that pain
Cannot silence light
Still burning in me.

Somewhere far away, deep in the forest,
animals dwell
some hide from predators,
yet more dangerous still
is the rifle of a hungry hunter.

He returns home with prey,
switches his plasma TV
to the Discovery Channel,
slices the animal’s flesh
to feed himself.

He sets the table,
eats,
and at last,
with half-closed, weary eyes,
lights a cigarette
the final act,
before locking the door
and collapsing into sleep.

It’s not about the money itself—
it’s about being happy
with the choices
I’ve chosen for myself.

But this,
I already knew.

So why did someone from outside
have to tell me
this truth
that was already here?

Because I still don’t know
how to validate
the ideas
of my own voice.

It almost happened.
I was almost good enough for him.
He almost took responsibility, our magnet pieces of love almost gathered,
Before the scene got all dim.

I never knew this would be my lesson,
In a closed book, an endless waiting session...
Now, the page turns on me and you,
The story is about to end, not with a goodbye, with the almost, in a blurry view...

miss me,
think of me at 3am
of how you said you wouldn't
leave
but what did i expect
with your words
clearly faker than you
nothing about us was real.
i see that she was right now
post-you is awful

i realised that i never finalised the finishing of writing this.. so here it is. it was done in part four but.. i felt the need to announce it. so..here. this is "obsessed."

its very easy --
to get obsessed,

getting obsessed
...but with writing?

it can hurt.

because it becomes
your only way
to cope,
to stay sane --

to be okay.

and its hard to
open up to people
after writing for so long.


and having paper
be the only one
who truly understands.

its difficult to be
vulnerable and open
about your feelings
and opinions
when writing them
is all you know.

not my best work, imo, but that doesn't mean it's bad.