I didn't start the war.
I swear it wasn't me!
I was sitting in my bedroom
listening to music and drinking tea.

I have no reason to fight,
to **** or retaliate.
I despise violence.
And I also meditate.

I don't follow the news,
I'd say they rather follow me.
That is my only crime,
that I feel for the killed.

And yes, I cried when I saw
a woman holding her dead child,
her eyes were red from scream
to the silence of the sky.

Yes, I cried when I saw it,
I couldn't stop my tears.
That is my only crime,
that I feel for the killed.

I never knew her like you did—
in everyday, familiar ways.
But I know her through your stories,
and the love that still remains.
She was your harbor in the storm,
your steady light, your guiding flame.
She shaped the fire that lives in you—
a heart too fierce to ever tame.
She bore her faith with gentle power—
a woman pure, steadfast, and wise.
And now, with reverence in your voice,
you call her blessed beyond all time.
She taught you love without condition,
how to stand firm, how not to bend.
She gave you strength to speak your soul
and fight with honor to the end.
You've drawn in closer to your father,
your heart more open, faith made new.
And still, I see beneath that grace—
the ache of missing what you knew.
Because a love like hers is carved in soul—
unchallenged, sacred, set apart.
She is your mother—now, forever—
forever stitched into your heart.
I often wish I’d known her more—
to share a laugh, a meal, a smile,
to sit and thank her for the love
that echoes through your every mile.
And oh, I wish she'd seen you now—
the way you father children mine.
She’d see her legacy in you,
in every choice, each steady line.
I know you walk a tender line,
between the past and what is new—
still holding space for Mama’s place
while making room for what is new.
So let this be your sacred ground—
a place to grieve without disguise.
No love like hers will be replaced;
it still lives on behind your eyes.
And on this day, I stand beside you—
to speak her name, to hold her light,
to say her love still shapes your days
and walks you safely through the night.

I was born into shadows, not into light,
Since breath began, nothing felt right.
Not broken by moment, but by design,
A stranger to joy, even in my prime.

Thirty one years, I’ve watched life unfold,
Not in color, just quiet and cold.
Not hated, not loved, just unseen,
Like dust on a shelf, caught in between.

No one has called me their reason to smile,
No one has asked me to stay for a while.
I’ve spoken in rooms that swallowed my sound,
I’ve stood in the crowd but never been found.

What good have I done? What trace have I made?
My efforts feel hollow, my memories fade.
Just ticking through time, a silent parade,
Existing, not living, a slow, aching fade.

And yet, here I am, heart still in chest,
Wounded but breathing, unrested, unblessed.
Each morning I wake feels more like a dare,
To face one more day when no one is there.

So if I am nothing, not needed, not known,
Why does the ache still cut to the bone?
Perhaps it’s the proof, however unfair,
That even unseen, I’m still something there.

I expected it to be gradual,
Like feel every day of my life,
Watching the sun rise then sets,
But then I become 25,
After a nap the length of my childhood.

Once upon a time I was guided to walk,
To learn in school with a teacher,
With classmates to learn with me,
So I learned better through them,
With some friends I had fun with.

I used to write so much,
A lot of thoughts with little words,
So smart, so creative, so brave,
But then I got here,
Barely spilling time to be me.

Why do I feel so empty,
When I have a life so full.
A love strong to waive my mistakes,
A home to keep other worries out,
And a job to do that pays well.

I travel and dive to the oceans,
I drive to the far high roads,
I fly to more islands,
But then I go home and think,
Why am I still sad?

Maybe this is growing,
The uncomfortable phase of consciousness,
When you think more of the things to do,
Than just doing it,
Always with fear of getting it wrong.

Because for the first time ever,
You are alone and fully responsible,
For your whole being,
And it is scary,
Growing up is scary.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Hasn’t even go to bed.
It’s past midnight and all over again.
Her bed’s still fully made.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Forgot what sleep is.
She spent herself but stably accepted
Her Destiny’s painful decrees.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Wants simply and plainly to be.
She stopped laughing long ago.
She rarer wants to speak.

A woman, who’s really tired
Of blaming herself for breathe,
A woman, who’s still feeling,
Has simply the right to live!

She’s so beautiful
She’s a distinct petal out of a thousand roses
So bright and radiant, but feels out of touch
She feels dark, so out of love
One says she changed, but a million are blinded

She’s a philosopher
An artist with her words
One says sadness
While she writes a silent ocean
Her brush steals hearts

Summer will find us shortly
In the bristling but once-filled heaps of grass
through the wind, the howling of sorrow
May the sun find our chests and warm their holes
For the lovers in the past have torn us through

I hold their hand for them to stay
But they drift further away
Must be killed three times to hold
These poets' eyes are not foretold
Despite the words that pour from the soul
A field of roses will rot
If the gardener does not trim the grot

oh yay,
it’s happening again.
nature’s monthly gift,
delivered straight to my underwear
like a subscription box from hell.
no tracking number.
no warning.
just splat!
hope you weren’t planning on dignity today.
but it’s okay.

because this is beautiful.
this is womanhood.
this is the magical time
where your organs weep
and everyone tells you to smile through it.

and the best part?
it’s totally normal!
you know, just a causal internal bleeding event
that lasts 5 to 7 working days.

love that journey for me.

meanwhile—
boys get to walk around
untouched,
unpunched,
completely unaware that their insides
aren’t staging a revolution once a month.
“oh, i stubbed my toe!”
congrats, jason.
try bleeding from places you don’t talk about in science class
and still showing up to algebra.

and let’s not forget
the experts
the boys in gym class
who say “ew” at a pad
like it’s cursed.
buddy, you can’t even make eye contact with a ******
without flinching like it’s a hand grenade.

but sure,
go off.
tell me how strong you are
because you can bench 120
while i’m surviving a bloodbath
with a smile and a midterm.

also—
shoutout to the marketing team
that decided to name pads like
“whisper”
and “cloud comfort.”
what i need is something called
“armour of god”
or “crime scene control.”

but no,
let’s keep pretending
this is sacred.
let’s keep painting it pink
and telling girls
“you’re a woman now.”

oh, am i?
cool.
then where’s my crown?
where’s my painkiller budget?
where’s the week off from school
for bleeding and not burning the building down?

because if men bled once a month?
we’d have national holidays.
paid leave.
parades.
blood themed energy drinks.

but me?
i get called “dramatic.”
for bleeding.
from inside.

so yeah,
super fun being a girl.
five stars.
would recommend.
can’t wait to do it again
next month.

Danger skitters in, like a ghost—
tap.
tap.
soft soles on hard pavement—
every shadow a question,
every echo a warning.

I walk alone, flanked by fear,
adrenaline roaring,
my heart thundering in my ears.
One hand in my purse,
the other wrapped around cold metal keys,
eyes sweeping,
ears tuned to the night’s breath.

The shadows shift—
predators seeking prey,
hatred and hunger in their eyes,
searching for someone
to unleash it on.

This is survival in staccato steps—
not prey,
a lioness cloaked in silence,
not waiting,
but ready.

A woman.
On the edge.
After dark.