Is it loyalty,
I wonder,
to craft you
into every corner of my world?
To fill my home
with your shadow,
even though you wander far…
perhaps with someone else?
I opened Shein,
and I spent hours
designing every piece I could,
placing your image on it:
the blanket I wrap myself in alone,
the pillows I hug
when the world crushes me,
the mug I sip my green tea from,
the Locket necklaces,
the candlesticks,
the LED lights,
the rose-gold and
white crystal engraved necklaces…
I crafted everything myself,
and I do not own a single thing yet…
All I have done is place the order,
and now I wait for them to arrive,
while my heart screams your name
in the silence of the empty room….

Not just for loyalty…
But to satisfy my vanity,
to feed my desperate need for you,
for your gaze
to follow me in every corner,
your smile perhaps…
perhaps just for me,
because I am me…
because I crave you
obsessively and
sickly…
I wear all the necklaces
engraved with your image
in my imagination now,
as if my heart could hold you,
as if my soul could feel you near,
even though you are not here yet…

Perhaps this is not loyalty
in the traditional sense,
and perhaps the world
will never know of this love,
of these acts of devotion
unseen by anyone,
of this beautiful torment
that fills me
and kills me at the same time…
I want to see you
in every corner of the house,
in the living room,
the bedroom,
the kitchen…
on the walls,
the tables,
the shelves,
in every thought
hidden in my mind
that no one else can see…
I want you to always smile at me,
to be present even in your absence,
to fill the void that cannot heal…

Perhaps
there is nothing else
I can do but wait…
wait in silence,
in aching patience,
trying to make you a home,
to make your love a warmth
that fills my life,
that makes me feel loyal,
even if the world thinks
I am lost,
useless,
soulless…

I have grown afraid
of awareness itself—
of awakening into a moment
where I cannot speak with you,
of being alone without the ability
to reach you
whenever fear grips me.

I will go on chasing dopamine,
feeding it,
raising it higher,
just to escape.

And so,
I lose consciousness every day,
because
whenever I return to awareness,
I remember you,
and I break into relentless tears.

There is no savior from
the desire to end it all,
and no savior from the terror
of the end itself.

Just creating
another forsaken album…
A hundred so-called
passionate videos,
with poetic feelings,
lipstick, white nails
that once lured you
when you were drunk,
tears and dark days,
and hundreds of cigarettes
drenched in sorrow—

the videos and pictures
I used to take for you,
and you would confess,
when you were no longer
in your demonic haze,
that you loved my sleepy eyes,
and wished you could
fall asleep inside them.

I keep them,
let them pile up,
until you stumble back home
with your emotions,
longing to die beside me,
starving for my tenderness,
aching to devour all of me.

No fire
nor ice
could mend me
but your moody existence.
Your gentle voice
when you are drowning
in a good mood,
high,
untouchable.
I knew I held you tighter
than you ever guessed—
until I fractured into fragile glass.
And still,
you made me believe
that nothing could heal me
from your merciless game.

I am starving
to wrap you in my embrace,
to engulf you
in a tenderness
that would shield you—
even if you arrived
only to set it on fire.

What havoc
could ever be as deadly
as you letting go of my hand,
asking me to pretend
that life goes on?
So I became a woman in black—
pale,
thoughtful,
melancholic,
sipping and devouring
what poisons my mind,
what dares to shape your smile
upon strangers’ faces.

What brings you alive
through my isolation?
Whenever I want to
summon you,
I only look at the sofa
and smile,
and your imaginary
smile smiles back at me—
a hallucination so perfect,
I would die to keep it alive.

It’s not about time,
nor endings.
It’s a great starvation,
for a single milligram
of your presence.
Nothing is darker
than confessing
you are my last resort—
come,
and shed my soul away.

I am grieving—
poetically,
deadly.

But who else is here
to witness my suffering?
Who counts my tears,
only to tell you later
that Nicole
is not fleeing your memory,
not hating the dark whispers
of your name,
but craving—
yes, craving—
to weep over you,
because that is all
she has left
to prove
how violently,
how ruinously,
she loved you.

And in the end,
when all illusions fade,
when silence
devours the night,
I return to the videos
and pictures,
to my sleepy eyes
that you once loved,
wishing,
always wishing,
that you could ask me
to sleep inside them again.