I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.

15.06.2025 Istanbul

Live Cam Bombing

Welcome to 2025, baby.


“What are you watching?”
“What channel?” 



BREAKING: Fresh strike.
 New upload.
No makeup exam tomorrow. 

(No makeup, no make-up at all. From dusk till dawn, we lock our brutal hearts)



It’s ****, you know? Just— with missiles. 


Everyone’s watching. 

The whole world. 

All eyes, all ears.

Everyone has their version, their angle, their frame. 

Each one making sense of senseless sparks.
Eyes wide. Mouths open.


But no one’s coming. No ******. Just the climb. That’s why they watch. It’s a kink.
A ******-catharsis. An ****** made of fire. And pixels. And ruin.
A genocide.

******-catharsis: not the release of pleasure
(not touch, not love but the pleasure of control, of watching ruin without risk),

but of tension. 

A scream without sound. 
The illusion that, for one explosive second,


chaos has meaning.

i've held the knife
felt the cold edge of the blade against my throat
my wrist
that tiny voice inside me screaming with joy
'it'll all be over'
'pull the plug!'
i'm terrified of living.
of enduring this ceaseless torment day after day after day
seething, writhing, floundering in an ocean of pain
but the terror of attempting and being left unsuccessful scares me even more.
the fear of failure in every aspect of my life
it comes back and bites you in the back
when you finally had the chance to be free
end it all
it chains you down and keeps you there
watching you struggle
i can't escape it
the endless ******* cycle of self doubt and fear
so i'm still here
seething, writhing, floundering in an ocean of pain.

the clutches of depression never truly let go
you have a few good days
a few fond memories
some laughs, the feeling of loneliness is combatted by warmth
a warmth that kinda sorta feels like home

and then one night you're back in your room again
city lights flickering in through the window
the feeling of dread creeps up in the back of your mind
it engulfs your brain

you swallow it down but it only spreads to your stomach
your lungs
cutting off your breath

suddenly you're suffocating again.
you're on the bathroom floor with the blade in your palm
wishing for it all to be over

just like you were.

writing turns pain into poetry.
something dark, cold and dreadful into beauty.
etched into the universe forever.

but,

when i'm happy,
when life is blissful,
when the rain feels euphoric
i become at a loss for words..
i go blank
the feeling of felicity is fleeting.
and is then forgotten.

life goes back to being blank and empty,
and the beauty of the moment that once existed,
is lost forever.

why do i bear my sadness like armour.
and let the happiness slip through my fingers.