Once, I heard that you could read palms.
From then on,
I kept looking at my own,
wondering where those lines might take me
if I did things right this time.
Could I be the mother of two,
living in a lovely house
with a man who can read my mind?
If we had a fight,
who would be the first to apologize?
Or would we say it at the same time,
hoping it could fix everything in time?
Could I finally learn that people make mistakes,
even those who seem perfect from the outside?
Could I learn that not every apology can save a bond,
and that sometimes you simply have to give it time?
Would the path I chose remain clear
if I stumbled along the way,
carrying my bags and my soul?
If I washed my hands often enough, could I erase a few lines in my favor?
Would those veering lines still be mine if I wandered for a few years before drawing new ones?
Was destiny waiting for me at the end of the crossroads,
or had it been with me all along?
Perhaps the lines know something I don't.
10h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 12:46 PM UTC
How should love make one feel?
Does it matter whether it's right or wrong?
If it expires too soon,
can you still believe it was right?
I am still dizzy from the taste of touch.
But what is this foul smell that refuses to leave my body?
It's as if I bathed in mud,
then dried inside a trash bin
while you closed the lid.
Weren't we two children playing in the dirt together?
How did this place become a hell you thought I deserved?
I begged:
"Please, lift the lid.
Set me free before it's too late."
For a long time,
I could hear your breathing,
waiting for me outside.
After a while,
I heard your footsteps fading away.
I pushed off the lid
and left the bin behind.
I showered
again and again
and again,
until my skin hurt
and bore the marks.
After some time, you sent a letter.
The scent was pleasant.
You told me you were thankful
that I had filled you with love.
But what about me, love?
This emptiness still reeks
as I try to wash it from my skin.
Memories turn into remorse,
one by one,
expiring in my mouth
as I answer your letter:
Would you do the same for me,
if I was the one who locked you up
and ran?
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC
What might a mistake cost someone?
How long does it take
to pay every price demanded of you,
so you no longer live
as if you're apologizing for breathing
to everyone you know?
Can everyone slip on a slippery road,
or does it happen only to a corrupted soul?
Do you still have the right to speak,
or do covered ears forbid you—
forbid your truths?
Is this a great earthquake,
or do your own tremors
shake your entire world?
Repercussion rings in my ears;
that noisy silence
can deafen a fractured soul.
Atonement bruises my knees
as I kneel,
turning my gaze
toward a desolated road.
And I can hear the requiem already:
“Forsaken child,
shrouded her cuts,
took the easy road.”
7d ago
May 26, 2026 at 11:29 PM UTC
The ache I feel
leaks through my mistakes.
The old version of me
withered in the storms I survived.
Change has become a barrier
between me
and the people I once loved.
I’m elusive now.
The tenderness I had
has drifted away from me.
I ask myself:
what is left inside?
An unraveled life,
heavy with uncertainty,
devouring me
each time I try
to step forward.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 3:27 AM UTC
After the storm,
there are still some leaves
flying through what remains of us.
I picked a few
to find solace,
never thinking
they could bring the rain
again and again.
Some of them cling
to bare branches—
just like I lingered
at the edge of your heart,
even though you left so long ago.
I tried to reconcile
with the story of us;
it was tragic.
I thought if I explained everything,
redemption would come
for both of us easily.
It didn’t.
The pain resurfaced with my words,
fragmenting us
until there was no you and I
left in a simple word like us.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:41 PM UTC
Last summer passed so miserably.
I’m not sure
if it was the weather that suffocated me
or the weight of what was left behind.
I don’t know
if I’m moving forward
or only going backward.
If I solved everything in my life,
would they finally see me as whole?
Would they say
I’m moving forward this time?
Would they congratulate me
if I’m doing better this time?
Who cares about outward results
when I’m still struggling to keep myself alive?
It’s hard to make anything serious
under the scorching sun.
Maybe I should wait
until next March.
I imagine how your days and nights are now.
If I am still in your memory,
or if you have locked me away
and let the dust eat our bond alive.
I have answers in my mind,
but if anyone asks,
I will wait until March
to answer them aloud.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:52 AM UTC
I used to be patient,
good at waiting—
waiting to see things get better.
I held my anger well
through most of what I lived.
Now my patience is wearing thin.
Every minute I wait
feeds the fire growing inside me.
I used to be good at listening.
Now it feels like there’s a clock inside me—
whenever I try to listen to someone,
it starts ticking,
as if there’s a time limit.
I only hear
my thoughts
running.
I used to know how to tolerate
and how to please,
even when they looked at me
like I was a different species.
I would brush it off
and try to fit in.
The kindness I showed others
felt like a quiet betrayal
of my own being.
I gave
and gave,
and gave
until it hollowed me out.
I reached my limit quietly.
No one noticed
the weight I was carrying.
Only curious eyes
studied my face,
trying to make sense of it
in their own way.
Now their gazes no longer reach my eyes.
I still hear the whispers,
but my steps fall steady
against the ground.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 2:12 PM UTC
I tried different ways to name what we built,
to understand it,
to move past the weight it left behind.
A bad habit—
I couldn’t leave you on time
like you did.
I waited
and waited,
only to dig deeper into my own wound.
I never realized
some wounds can’t be loved away
until I faced your cowardly silence.
Even after the lightning struck,
I tried to be loud in your darkness.
The weight you left grew heavier
until I let it fall.
You watched me leave,
still hidden in your darkness.
But darkness doesn’t last forever.
One day,
you will have to face your own silence.
Maybe then,
we will meet again.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
I inherited my eyes from my mother.
They’re dark,
heavy with what never arrived,
wrapped in thick ropes of fear,
suffocated by narrow borders—
still, there’s a flicker of light.
Like hers,
I drown in my own survival,
every night closing
with the hope
that something beautiful could happen,
only to open
to uncertain mornings.
Anger, untamed,
waits beneath my words.
Still, I stay soft in cruel times,
sharing my heart
with those who couldn’t hold it.
How I wish I could see the world
through my father’s eyes—
his hazel ones...
I tried to see it his way.
But my eyes were fixed on a single point—
the cigarette packet
and the ashtray on the table.
Then the smoke filled my vision,
clouding my anxious mind.
I couldn’t speak.
And I thought:
“It’s better to leave some things unsaid
than to be right,
if every word we speak
unravels a fragile home,
leaving a scar.”
I inherited my tears from both sides.
You can mix brown and hazel
and still get white—
colorless drops
that keep me warm
and remind me I’m still alive.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 11:01 PM UTC
It’s difficult to give up on someone you love,
to say this is the last time we talk
and then
we’re done.
Should I bury the memory of us?
Can your silence be buried too
if I don’t resist this time?
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 7:19 PM UTC