Amid the intricate carvings of my heart,
your form lay dreaming—
an unending stone at rest.
I never dared to touch it.
I was never meant
to be a sculptor.
Still,
on other stones
I carved your shadow.
In other faces
I searched for your trace.
From many,
I gathered fragments of you.
But your scent—
no one could ever claim.
Like a burnt feather,
my fingers drifted,
aimless,
through your hair.
Now,
in every stone I see,
your outline emerges to me.
Yet I will carve none of them.
I will not disturb the surface.
I love you more this way—
Hidden.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 2:09 AM UTC
Her death was sudden—
a blink, and it was done.
I was asleep inside.
my newborn breathing beside.
No sound... Nothing to worry
Still, something tilted in the air.
Something was wrong.
I wanted to cry.
She was deep-rooted,
not just a pet or cat.
They say three dogs had her.
No blood.. No meows
Only a quieted pulse.
Her neckpiece still rang
when they lifted her.
Lucky—
that was her name.
I got her in fragments, fractured
Numb in half and mostly ghost..
Yet we called it kitten...
Instinctive, Messy, Musing
Eating insects like treats.
She leapt from my cradle
to the highest rack,
to bookshelves that trembled.
Lucky, Lucky—
half wild,
purring through the house.
How much I loved you.
One morning we woke
to her offerings:
a dead snake, a bitten cockroach, a frog—
laid like proof of love.
We trained her too well.
Bound her too tight.
She wanted freedom.
She broke walls.
She went out.
How could we blame her?
She was never meant
to stay inside.
Lucky, little beauty—
you wandered like a habit.
One evening,
as I slept with my baby,
he came in, held me,
and said you were gone.
Lucky, my fur-child,
I miss you every day.
I wish I held you once more,
not to undo the past,
but to give this love a home.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 12:44 AM UTC
Startled from my sleep,
I gaze through the window—
painted by an anonymous artist
across the pathways of the sky.
No stars to accompany it,
standing all alone,
stretching and spreading—
the full moon shines,
a milky glow of light.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 5:51 AM UTC
When I rewrite you,
every letter bleeds—
as if you are the last address of hope,
the final breath I’m forced to spend.
Why was mercy so easily given
to everyone else,
and denied to me?
Who told you
I was less human?
We loved once.
Don’t deny it.
But when we left,
We left the mess—
for followers
to pick through the remains,
to turn our wreckage
into an empire of stories.
We never had closure.
We never even began.
But don’t ever say,
We never happened.
Now I know,
All those times—
It was me.
It was you.
It was two untrained creatures
locked in a cage.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 12:15 AM UTC
I once had a language—
powerful,
now misplaced,
like a star no one names anymore.
I was the last lip
to let it sound,
the last breath
that carried it forward.
I was unbearably alone.
No one perceived my waiting.
No one placed a hand
upon my pain.
No one came to speak—so I learned
the art of silence.
Language—
the pulse beneath life.
Language—
the fragile bridge between souls.
No one desired my language.
And no one believed
it was still breathing.
It had no script.
It arrived as sweat—
salt-heavy,
lodged deep in the lungs
of my ancestors.
They cried in it.
They ruled with it.
They were drunk
on its many tints.
There were endless names for birds.
Each wing granted its own syllable.
Flowers refused to repeat themselves.
each petal claiming a new word.
Still,
We abandoned it.
Because it bled.
Because it strained.
Because it belonged
to bodies that worked,
and voices, tired.
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 3:45 AM UTC
I told ten people
that today
I would end my life.
No one paused.
No one held the words
long enough
to believe it.
The hollow space.
Time, stagnant.
Moments slipping into seconds
without a seam.
Nothing changes.
Nothing
really matters.
Yes—
I say this often.
They call it babbling.
Fantasy.
A rehearsal of endings.
I imagine the finish line—
the ceiling fan,
the bitter cream in coffee,
the chosen bite,
the quiet flame.
Which one would frighten them most?
Because I want shock—
that frozen, unbelieving face.
I want the weight
of their regret
for not listening.
When they finally see my stillness,
I will open my eyes
only for them.
I will say—
“Listen.
to the deprived.
Listen
to the depressed.
They mean it
when they speak.”
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 12:50 AM UTC
I was in the kitchen.
cleaning plates,
washing bottles.
Three days
since my child went to school.
Her lunchbox
still unopened.
Still waiting.
When I opened it
the smell arrived first—
something old,
left behind.
Tiny worms
moving through crumbs
of unfinished food.
I watched them
and thought:
This is how it happens.
Quietly.
Between mornings.
I saw myself there—
inside the lunchbox,
kept,
forgotten,
still warm enough
for life to continue.
No one to clean me.
No one to notice
the slow turning.
It is time again
for her to go to school.
Another morning.
Another rush.
I wiped the box
with a rug.
Opened the tap.
Washed.
Poured the liquid
over what remained.
The smell stayed
on my hands.
Even after soap.
Even after water.
As if care
never really ends—
it only moves
from one container
to another.
As if
This is what I am becoming.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 1:01 AM UTC