I’ve found many things to be beautiful.
In fact, I can honestly find beauty in everything.
I found it in the sky, the way it can effortlessly change colors,
The earth, which became a refuge for all
Of us here to eat and drink from her body and soul.
The people I am surrounded by, my gorgeous friends,
For whom I need no filter or social battery.
And you.
Frankly, no other beauty has affected me like yours.
The countless times I’ve scrolled through each picture of you,
Analysing each detail.
You are the artwork that the greatest artists wish they could convey in their work
But cannot seem to capture the essence in a physical image.
I could devote my life to you,
I could study you for hours,
I could analyse you like the books I read
Highlight,
Annotate,
And bookmark my favorite page.
I could express my devotion in the bylines,
I could memorise you like the constellations above each and every night.
I could never get bored of your beauty;
It will forever captivate me.
It’s a phenomenon that should be studied.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:51 AM UTC
You are my sun
And I, your sunflower
My life revolves around
You who shines on me
And yet at times, I feel
Like I am more the moon
Our hearts are one
Yet our minds cannot meet
It feels as though we are
Forever on opposing ends
One always overshadowed
Inevitably by the other
You are the sun
Bold and bright yet brash
Sitting high in the sky
Caring and yet cruel
At times, I am the moon
Bleak and bereft
Surrounded by stars
But equally so of darkness
I wish to hide in that darkness
And wait until the day
For the eclipse that shall bring us
Truly together again.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:49 AM UTC
She is the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires, so beautifully imperfect.
Call me obsessive,
I’m just a passionate lover.
I lay awake at night,
I look at the ceiling, thinking of you.
Sometimes I never sleep.
I’m not obsessive,
Just in passionate love.
I stay in bed all day,
I close my eyes, dreaming of you.
Sometimes I never want to wake up.
I still have your clothes,
Some never washed.
I put them on and pretend I’m you.
I sit in front of the mirror,
I touch myself as you do.
Call me obsessive,
I’m just your passionate lover.
I take hot showers.
I let the water cascade over me with my eyes open
So I see the shape of you.
You stand in the shower with me,
Hair wet, and bright blue eyes that come alive.
I let the air cloud,
I let the windows fog.
I suffocate myself to hallucinate you.
Not obsessive,
Just passion-filled.
I just want to love you,
I just want to hold you.
I want to wear your skin,
Feel you hot and fleshy around me.
I lay on the ground where you’ve walked,
I touch the areas you used to inhabit.
I still feel you here, I still feel you there.
I want to be hurt by you again,
I want to be bawling and weeping in love with you.
You’re obsessed,
I’m simply passion-based.
You can’t hate me for that.
I want to be you,
I want to have you,
I want to be loved by you.
I’m obsessed,
Borderline obsessed.
And completely passionate
About you.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:46 AM UTC
SZA is playing on my laptop, and my phone has been lighting up with notifications from my muse.
Where have you been, my love? Where did you go?
Will you stay this time?
I tried ringing creativity, but she sent me straight to voicemail.
I sent a couple of texts to inspiration, but she left me on read.
I can’t sit here and say I never thought about up and leaving you.
I run away from anyone who gets close enough to stroke against my ribcage, close to my heart.
I never liked the way their hands felt, frozen and dripping with their desperation.
Maybe I’m just too tired of the same old thing,
Or maybe I’m just really stuck on you.
I love listening to you speak about the things you’re passionate about,
Like what music you’re currently into
And the videos you send me of what outfit you’re wearing today,
Little things to make me feel closer to you.
Your eyes widen
With light and fire as you recall every detail.
You speak to me with every syllable so delicately selected,
And I’m captivated by you,
Awestruck by the way you open me up to new information.
You made time stop,
While continually making me experience an everlasting feeling of bliss.
In sunlight,
You crafted your world with your heart
And used your voice as its vessel.
And I would sit there, dumbfounded,
So pleasantly incapacitated
By pure passion
Behind every single breath that you speak to me with.
Your sunlight never failed to shine,
No matter how dark the settings of your stories could be.
And I’ll forever be thankful for that.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:44 AM UTC
I witnessed a girl who quite literally
Assimilates the entire solar system
Planets
Stars
Milky ways
Moons
Suns
Galaxies
They all reside within her, the way you can tell this is by the twinkle of stardust in her eyes.
Her soul is a Helix Nebula
And i have never seen anything
More breathtaking in my entire life.
My own little space girl
Her full lips were created by the Pleiades
And if she were to Kiss me i bet it would taste of a thousand revolutions,
Like cool nights and nostalgia,
Like Nicki Minaj’s Pinkprint album,
**** it,
All of Nicki Minaj’s albums.
She talks with a calm storm in her throat
Soft enough to bring you in, but still strong enough to drown you.
It’s a benevolence my body is foreign to
And sometimes it agitates me how tranquil a person can be when they posses the universe inside of them
But i know she’ll never ill treat me
For as long as the stars phosphorescence
every night
Her soul will be pouring with sunshine by morning
Supernova eyes
She looks at me
Like home,
Like heroine,
And i forget a time
Where she was not present
Because it feels as if i’ve known her a lifetime,
Perhaps a world before this one.
So maybe we were both reborn
From the same star
And if that’s the case then the universe is a hopeless romantic
That fiends for a happy ending.
I’m manifesting i get mine.
The same way i manifest a smile stays painted on her pretty face
When she hears my poem.
As the sun dies down, I’m welcomed by the solar system inside of her,
And my God, it’s beautiful.
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 3:47 AM UTC
Maybe one day I’ll be yearned for. I have designated countless hours of my life wishing on shooting stars for love from people who did not know how to cherish my own. I have been informed over and over again that people won’t understand the way that I love. Not everyone preserves their heart in ice like I do, so they do not know how to give my love back to me. Over time, I defrosted, started spilling my love in front of mirrors, my reflection both the sender and recipient of my broken letters.
Maybe for once, I would like to be the girl you dream about. The first person you think of when it hits 11:11. I want to be on the receiving end of smiles from pretty girls; I long to be the one to make sweet boys laugh.
But I’m writing poems about strangers. My heart has been rejected too many times to take chances. I have come to terms that maybe I’m meant to give out more love than I will receive in this lifetime.
For once, maybe I would like to be loved, not just liked. Not just cute or **** not just a fling or a fleeting moment and another notch on someone’s bedpost. I want someone to think of me in the same way I think of them. I want someone to look at me and see a spark, a possibility, a future that’s worth building for. I would like to be on the receiving end of goodnight texts, sent way after I’ve fallen asleep, so that when the sun rises, I know I’m the first thought on your mind even when I’m not present. Maybe someday I’ll be the girl you picture in love songs or poems like this. But for now, I’ll keep writing poems I’ll never send; typos will never hurt as much as loving someone who doesn’t love you back.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 2:14 PM UTC
Girls, we’re in our twenties.
And **** me, it feels like running barefoot through broken glass
laughing so hard we forget we’re bleeding,
faces streaked with makeup and tears,
swearing to the world we’re okay
when every step cuts deeper.
We’re fine.
We’re not fine.
We’re twenty-something.
Girls, we’re in our twenties,
and it’s falling for men who study our bodies
but never learn our names.
It’s whispering “maybe he sees me”
until we’re sick on cheap *****
our best friend dragging our hair out of the way,
shouting,
“He doesn’t see you, babe.
He only sees himself reflected in your shine
and he’s too small to hold the light.”
And we laugh through the tears, because what else is there to do?
It’s midnight secrets and 4 a.m confessions.
It’s shouting “I love you, ***** across sticky club floors
and meaning it more than any man will ever deserve.
It’s kissing girls because we want to,
because maybe we’ve always wanted to,
and hearing the echo of our mother’s voice in our head whispering
“That’s not what good girls do.”
while our own voice screams louder,
“Then maybe I’m not a good girl and thank **** for that.”
Girls, we’re in our twenties.
And families are breaking around us.
Some of us grieve mothers who aren’t dead but act like they are.
Some of us light candles for fathers who never got the chance to grow old.
Some of us have families stitched together with friends,
with women twenty years older who pour us wine and tell us,
“Girlhood never ends, you just learn new ways to carry the scars.”
We hold onto them because they’re the only people who remember the chaos we came from,
the only people who laugh at the same stupid mistakes we keep making,
and when the nights feel endless,
we keep thinking maybe, just maybe, we’ll be okay.
But the thought of thirty is always there,
like a shadow at the edge of the streetlights,
a quiet fear that we’ll wake up one day
and realise all the nights, all the fights, all the reckless magic
were slipping through our fingers while we weren’t looking.
Girls, we’re in our twenties.
It’s shouting at each other until our throats are raw,
storming out of clubs, sending texts and ending phone calls.
Crying in toilets we barely remember,
then finding each other hours later outside kebab shops,
voices cracking, hearts raw,
“I don’t care what happens, you and me, we’re forever. I love you.”
It’s the kind of love that bruises but also saves,
the kind that hurts because it’s real,
the kind that feels more like family than blood ever did.
We grow up in fragments.
pieces of the kids we were still clinging to our sleeves.
The girl who scribbled hearts in her school notebook
now scrolls dating apps at 2 a.m.
The girl who swore she’d never drink
is throwing up tequila in a stranger’s sink.
The girl who dreamed of forever
is learning forever might mean just tonight.
Girls, we’re in our twenties.
And the nights out are both war and worship.
We line our lips in bathroom mirrors,
share tampons with strangers,
cry about dads who never came home,
and sing too loudly to songs we don’t even like
just because it reminds us that we’re alive.
We are half mess, half church hymn.
We are fragile and ******* invincible.
We are learning how to live in a world
that keeps telling us we’re too much and not enough
in the same ******* breath.
And girls,
here’s the thing no one tells you.
Girlhood doesn’t end.
Not when you hit thirty,
not when you have kids,
not when you’ve buried your parents.
Girlhood lingers in the way we hold each other’s faces and whisper,
“you’re beautiful, do you know that?”
In the way we dance barefoot in kitchens,
wine stained and heartbroken,
in the way we promise,
“I’ll love you forever”
and mean it with every fibre of who we are.
Girls, we’re in our twenties.
And we’re lost.
And we’re hopeful.
And we’re ******* magic.
And one day, when we’re older,
we’ll look back and say,
we survived it.
We survived it together.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 10:42 AM UTC
I lost myself a long time ago.
I lost myself when boys thought I was old enough to share intimate things with.
I was 6.
They showed me things I had no business seeing, and they put those things inside of me.
I haven’t been the same since.
When I look in the mirror, it’s kind of foggy, but I see a little girl staring back; she must’ve been 6.
She’s smiling,
Making jokes and giggling.
But
She’s got pain behind those eyes. She looked back at me and said, no one believed her.
My heart broke.
Her voice cracked as she said it.
As I looked closely at this girl, she had bruises all over her tiny body from speaking out, as if being a victim wasn't already painful enough.
The reason her voice cracked was because the people she was meant to trust told her to choke on broken pieces of silence.
Told her to move on,
To push it down,
To forget.
She used what little voice she had left to let me know. I kissed the reflection, the same way you'd kiss a scraped knee to make it better, to help the pain go away. But she’s just a reflection; I can’t make her feel better.
The pain is still there, 14 years later; no kiss can make it better. My heart still hurts, and I still struggle to be around men for too long.
So, to my future love, I’m sorry I won’t be the perfect girl for you.
My past makes loving me a little harder.
I’m sorry I can’t change time; God knows I’ve tried.
But be patient and love me a little more.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:43 PM UTC
I don’t want to be the thought that slips your mind.
I want to be the thought that brings you to your senses, that I could be the one that got away.
But I’m shy, so I’ll never tell you that;
instead, I’ll say something like,
“Do you want to come over and watch TV?”
And I don’t have a TV.
So I’ll be left flicking through the channels of you. My soft kisses on your neck like perfect connection.
I’d tell you things like,
how I know
all your lies and deceptions have just been adverts before the real show, and you’re the star.
If you said, “Baby, glow for me,”
I’d rip out my soul, cut it into a million
little pieces to form constellations to
light your way home.
The distance between your body and mine is the same distance that stretches from heaven to earth.
From left to right,
From rich to poor.
Like, **** we could be so perfect together.
I know **** is a bad word, but it sounds so right,
Like raising a finger at the ******* priest every time he forgets that Eve was Adam’s preceptor.
‘Cause apples are ******* healthy, you patriarchal piece of **** So how about it, my love? Let’s burn the Bible and rewrite it, allowing Lilith and Eve to be together and live in Eden—now how’s that for situational irony?
And any homophobe who dares to turn our rainbows into storms and our glitter into ash will burn and choke on their hate until they swell and combust into cinder.
We’ll laugh and share a kiss on the embers, and it’ll be grand, my love.
But until then,
There’s something like a hurricane in motion when you sweep your hair from your eyes and stare into mine.
Like you’ve seen this show before
and I’m your favourite scene.
So, I was thinking,
Do you want to come over and watch TV?
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 1:58 PM UTC
I’m told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope to never experience a love so greedy
As to steal the last breath of air from my chest.
My psyche lost in the commotion of euphoria,
Exposing air inward,
Pumping it into my chest with immense heaves.
It never alleviated the searing in my lungs.
I marvel for a moment at the fact that I cannot feel myself breathing,
Can’t feel the rise and fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality is absent, and yet, I am very much alive.
I remember what it was like to be truly breathless,
The blind trepidation that captured me,
Before finally giving way to a wish for death.
She was on her knees,
Begging for me.
It’s because of this that I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so heavenly that I’m slightly aware of my own heartbeat.
Love should make breathing feel easy and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence,
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC