i got woken up
before the sun could rise.
furniture scraped the floor
as the moving van arrived.

my father shed tears,
kissing the cats goodbye.
i was only seven
when their divorce
was finalised.

the next time
i was eight,
only six months
wiser than before.
my mother said
it was all a mistake —
we couldn’t live
like that anymore.

there were no cats
to bring back.
belongings were sold.
when we moved again,
we snuck out
during the day
so my father wouldn’t know.
it was better that way.

we lived hidden
in a half-house
under a tree,
as if the branches
could smother
the echoes
of the screams.

my brother returned,
shaping a new family
with a girl.
although a bit crowded,
for a moment,
i swear we were happy.

in between the bags
and the weight of living,
i jumped into
the arms of a boy
who gave me an out.
his smile felt like escape,
but left me empty
and dry.

a decade later,
i found a house —
not a house.
a home.
in a country
i was meant for.

they didn’t speak my tongue,
but accepted my love,
even the way i failed
and learnt.
the love was unconditional,
and asked for nothing
in return.

it took sixteen attempts
to find one i could own.
and now that it’s mine,
i never want to leave.

if i made a move,
it might stir the darkness —
the kind that still breathes.

sometimes.

and i need
to let it sleep.

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

my brother the other day,
as if he didn't know,
asked me my age.

i was puzzled,
but fair –
he’d lead me somewhere.

“i’m twenty-three.”

his reply like a slap:
“aren’t you ashamed?”

for a second,
i wondered
if he knew something
i didn’t.
guilt bloomed in my veins.

then he repeated,
“twenty-three.
and you still haven’t
finished your book.”

ten years on,
he’ll find a parcel
on his doorstep.
with a note, tucked
inside the page:

“i'm sorry
it took so long.
some stories need
a decade in the dark
before they finally
find their shape.”

i went back at twenty-three,
to the school that survived me.
the rebel, the headache,
the girl who wouldn’t listen —
and thought of this building
as being trapped in a cage.

it felt like coming home.
my teacher grinning wide,
filling me with warmth,
hugging me from the side
during the memorial,
as if the teenagers on stage
weren’t reciting poems
about the war.

he kept leaning in,
whispering jokes
of old times.
shushing didn’t work –
i was secretly glowing
in their unexpected pride.

they called me the proof.
an example, that
the troubled can bloom.
but all i could think
was how they loved me
through my worst,
and still do.

i am older now (obviously)
and certainly feel it.
i am wiser now (probably)
and certainly feel that too.
however i am still not old or wise
nor do i know how to write a poem (although i now have several years of literature study).
all i know is that the older i get the more insurmountable the future seems
as it unfurls before me, limitless and suffocating.

today i write less than i would like to
as i let the words
slip through my fingers,
as they tend to,
because i'd rather regret not speaking,
marking my silence up to foolishness when i am older,
than say anything at all.

as a kid we can't wait to grow up
we want to explore the world
cause nobody wants to explain with words

afraid to crash you down

so I got to be strong
cause I can't wait this long
I figured it out myself
and found the darkest place
and now need space
cause I’m falling in this phase people call it "youth"

Almost there

now I’m past halfway
3 years holding me back
and every day feels like a trap

the rusty swings sway in the wind,
reminiscing on what once was before she sinned,
the little girl which used to be scared to sit,
scared of falling to the ground, punching back when her body hit,
now that little girl is grown,
she sits on those swings like its a thrown,
because everything is luxury when you're eight,

the rusty swings rest in the sun,
whilst that once little girl runs along,
she brings her friends, or so she thinks,
they sit ,they laugh, until they sink,
until they start to give her betraying stares,
until she realises they never cared,
she then sits alone on the swings,
because everything is hard when you're thirteen,

the rusty swings have been removed now,
all the little children have grown up,
now they just sit in the darkness.
wishing they could go back to sitting on the swings.

I get us each one more scoop of ice cream.
You’re full but try to eat it anyway.

It’s things like this I’ll miss,
you shoveling in food simply because
it’s the last thing we’ll eat together.

As I’m shutting the car door,
my mind screams for me to stop.

I scoop out the thought and leave it on the pavement—
along with my fears that you won’t come back.

All I can do now is trust that God will protect you,
as my heart is scooped, clean out of my chest.