They may exclude you,
block you,
erase you—

but only because you set boundaries,
because you chose your own voice
over theirs,
because you chose to be whole,
not broken into pieces.

Once, you jumped ship
hoping they would save you.
And they did—
but not from loyalty,
not from friendship,
only for what you could offer.

That nearly destroyed you.
It drained your soul.

Now, you’ve jumped again—
no lifeboat,
no life jacket,
no hope of rescue.

And that’s the beauty of it.
Because now you know
the true value
of learning how to swim.

Yes,
I can get upset
over silly things.

Yes,
I can get angry
at the smallest details.

And that’s okay.

I take those feelings,
pour them into poetry,
or fists against my pillow.
And that’s okay.

But if I spoke of these little things—
the failures,
the sadness—
to everyone,
not all would understand.

And that’s okay.

It’s about feeling,
letting it out,
letting it pass,
and finding peace
within myself.

who would have thought?
isn’t that the girl from 103?
she left that scoundrel,
now lives on the east side.

she should be
the pretty girl with the ribbon bow,
shining every day,
dancing until her feet blister,
getting ready with her friends,
singing with joy,
inking in red
a silly smile
on a boy’s cheek—

not crying at nightfall,
afraid of the monster.

he’s already locked away,
watching the sunrise
through bars.

but yours rises round,
burning like fire—
and tells anyone who dares to see:
fear is no longer yours to keep.

no man
will ever again
hold the power
to make you suffer.

some people seem to carry heaven
in the way they walk—
effortless, luminous,
as though their purpose
is to remind us of grace

i have not known such ease
my lessons came
through breaking bones of the spirit
through the heavy silence
of unsaid words
through desires that cut too deep

and still—
i do not curse the falling
i do not despise the storm

because what it left in me
wasn’t bitterness
but the stubborn clarity
that love,
even when it burns down,
remains the only treasure
worth guarding

she walks
like light bends
to touch her steps

her silence
softens walls
and eyes fall in reverence

i built myself
out of fragile tears
every love
took pieces i could not keep

still i stand
hands open
heart trembling
believing
even loss
is holy

i wait each day
just to see you
walking through the school

a fleeting second
is enough—
i don’t even know
if you notice me

still,
i carry this quiet crush

i won’t make the first move
fear whispers
that the magic might vanish

so i just keep staring
every
single
day

After everything
didn’t you learn anything?

You were supposed
to be healing by now,
reflecting on the mistakes,
on the love you gave
that was never solid—
only wind.

It was not true,
even if you are certain it was.
It wasn’t, love.
It was emptiness,
a hunger for affection.

If you had stopped,
just for a moment,
to think about it,
you would have known too.

You shouldn’t be writing
about us,
about our love,
our undone plans.

You should be writing
about your traumas.

you will see his eyes
and think it is love

but the danger is
we stay
when we should leave

a stone
turns into a mountain

do not give
your love
to empty hands

your love
plays guitar
but hides in a harmonica case

your lies
sweet to them
poison to me

if regret could ****
i would be gone
only my perfume
left in the wind

a ghost you chase
never knowing
we ended
before we began

A date?
I don’t know.

Your love—
is it fake?
Maybe.

Why did you take my number?
Just to know.

And now,
what will this be?
Perhaps a story
already fading into smoke.

Let’s pretend
we never did a thing.

I accept it.
You’re doing everything
to dim my image,
to rise above,
to play the victim,
to show the world
how much you suffered,
how cruel I must have been.

As if I, too,
hadn’t wept,
hadn’t begged,
hadn’t broken
and rebuilt myself
just to make us work—
two puzzle pieces
that never truly fit.

It seems you need this
more than I do.
Some people must turn you
into the villain
so they can crown themselves
the hero of their own lives.

So I accept it.
I will be
the villain of our story.

I think I saw a ghost today.
I’ve moved away,
but there you were,
standing on the corner,
waiting to cross the street.

I thought you were dead —
but unfortunately,
you’re healthy and well.
I thought you’d fall apart
after I left.

In the end,
I think you were just afraid
of my intensity.
You said you’d love me forever,
and the next day
you didn’t love me at all.
A one-night love.

Just know —
every night,
I stand on my balcony
As Juliet
and whisper things
to the moonlit night,
to the city wind,
so it can carry those caresses
back to you.

I’ll be the ghost
haunting you.

I’m tired of romances.
Maybe I’m just tired of myself.

From now on, I’ll write
free, light,
and unchained.

I’ve spent too long
reading,
rereading,
thinking I needed more time.
Fool.
Idiot.

Pleased to meet you.

As a woman,
I can be as many as I choose.
I can tell as many stories as I want.
And God help those
who don’t want to listen—
it won’t be easy to stop me now.

Light.
Darkness.
Prose.
And poetry.
All in one body.
Amen.

But I’m tired of romances—
or maybe
of happy endings.

It’s never been like that.
It never will be.

Stop fooling yourselves—
the bad boy doesn’t end up
with the good girl.
We like the contrast,
that’s why we read those stories.

The truth?
The bad boy ends up with the foolish girl—
and she’s not just foolish,
she’s twisted enough
to crave his filthy mouth
and his alpha swagger.

You are not my daughter—
you are the daughter
of his late brother.

But everyone used to say
you looked like me,
that you could have easily
been mine.

And that was fine.
I called you princess,
because you are.

I don’t know
when you will realize this,
but the place you’re growing up in
is a hard one.

I won’t say I miss you,
but I wonder—
do you ever miss me?

Because in the few moments
we shared,
you clung to me,
you painted my face,
brushed my hair,
and for a while—
I became a princess
in your kingdom.

I hope the little time we had
was enough to show you
there is more to life.

Never stop dreaming, Nic.
You can go far.
All it takes
is believing.

i learned too late
your love
was a poisoned apple

i still don’t know
if you are
the witch
or the devil

wanting you
is a crime
and i
am the guilty one

your truths
drip with lies
a wolf
in sheep’s skin

modern romance
teaches us
to cheer for villains

so i let myself
be robbed
killed
destroyed

fine
you’re the devil

sinking into cushions
i ask myself
is this silence
a wound
or a gift

my friends have vanished
into their own worlds
this is what love does
it swallows people whole

maybe the absence
is my reflection
me and the glowing screen
sharing secrets
until sleep

i whisper lies
humans were made
to be islands
i tell myself
and i try
to believe it

if words could heal
i would cover my body
with them
like bandages

but what can i say
when you look happier now
than you ever did
with me

i tell myself
it is better this way
everything happens for a reason
what doesn’t **** us
makes us stronger

yet i no longer know
if i am dead
or alive
only that it hurts

i pray to gods
i am not sure exist

and the longer time passes
the more i realize
the period you used
to end our story
felt less like freedom
and more like a nail
in my coffin

i watch her
put on makeup every day

not to look prettier
but to cover the sadness

she thinks i don’t see it
but i do—
her smile stops at her eyes

these days have been heavy
she stays in the bedroom
i hide in other rooms

someone has to move first
maybe the cure is in
taking off our masks
sharing cheap wine by the fire
talking nonsense
instead of pointing fingers

i know we can talk
without shouting

we can start again
as if it were
our first date

I must confess —
I reached the gates of heaven,
peeked inside,
and chose to turn back.

You weren’t there,
so it wasn’t worth it.

It’s not as if I hadn’t tried;
I know I was a good person.
But this surprise
I did not expect.

I didn’t want to make this public —
people wouldn’t understand.
How could I give up glory?
But you were more glorious.

I knew sooner or later
this would come to an end.
I hope you’re crying for me,
because I slit my wrists for you,
hoping to find myself
alive.

I can feel your nerves from here.
You didn’t expect our love story
to take this turn.

It may seem insignificant,
but that’s how life works —
when we least expect it,
it sweeps our feet from under us.

They say love is forever
while it lasts.
I guess we’re somewhere in the middle.
We’ve earned a C.

I won’t text you,
or show up out of nowhere
in your life again.
We don’t need to repeat this script.

But I hope you make peace
with our memories,
with the good moments we shared.
Those, at least,
will be eternal.

We can’t go back to the beginning.
If we had known the ending,
would we still be on this road?

But I understand —
you want to know what it’s like
to be far from home,
why I can’t sleep at night.

I understand.

You want to know
why I always order the same drink twice
at that bar on the corner.

I understand.

You want to know
what it’s like to stand
on the wrong side of the history.
And honestly,
there comes a moment
when you get used to it,
and it starts to feel right.

It’s okay.
I’m okay now.

But I appreciate the concern —
keep digging,
keep asking about my life,
and one day
you’ll know about me.

Sometimes I ask myself
Why I can’t win this fight,
How to win this fight.

And then I realize
It’s about letting go,
Lowering the importance.

But the urge to fight will return—
My body already knows this.

Now that I know
I can simply release,
If I choose to fall back into this fight,
I’ll be keeping the victim’s story alive.

And that’s no longer
My story to tell.

Lost the battle, won the war

I admit—
this week
I hit my cat.

It’s wrong, I know that now.
Crucify me.

But did anyone ever teach me
that disobedience
is handled with patience?

In my house,
it was always the slap,
the belt,
the stick.

How do you not repeat the same
when it’s your turn?

I’m not just talking about the cat—
poor thing.

They say relationships
are a mirror.
You see even what you didn’t want to see.

My cat,
when beaten,
running away, then coming back,
showed me I’m a *****,
a ****,
and a human
who needs love.

When I read
poems from the past,
I barely understand them.

I try, yes—
but they are minds
from another time.

It takes time
to connect with them.

Then I imagine myself:
will they, in the future,
read the poems I write to you
and understand
anything at all?

I’m certain
That to you,
I was a dandelion
You held too tightly
In your hands.

The wind came
And carried all my petals away,
Leaving only my memory behind.

Know this—
I’ve flown to a better place,
Even if that place
Is far from you.