It started as a scare
a quiet confusion,
like I’d been dropped
into a foreign desert.
A stranger in my own life,
somewhere I didn’t belong.
Each day heavier than the last,
each night lonelier than before.
Then I adjusted.
Made peace with the silence.
Became my own company,
my own strategy.
Win.
Lose.
Win.
Lose.
Lose.
Somewhere in between,
anxiety found me—
loud, relentless.
God knows how I cried,
how I hoped,
how I prayed.
Still, I showed up.
Tried again.
Fell again.
Rose again.
Win.
Lose.
Win.
Then came the hardest part.
Win.
Win.
Win.
Hope returned
soft, dangerous.
“Almost there,” it whispered.
“Just one more push.”
And then
Loss.
Loss.
A heavy, final loss.
Tomorrow is my last day.
And somehow,
also my birthday.
I have no tears left now.
No fight.
No questions.
Just stillness.
Just quiet.
I did my best.
And tonight,
that has to be enough.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 12:24 PM UTC
She boldly walks toward the fire.
She doesn’t know it burns.
The flames excite her;
she coos as she chases “happiness.”
She is clothed in razzmatazz.
You should see how her face lights up
when her peers gaze fondly
and play with her beautiful pearls.
Today, she does not eat her asaro.
Mother is worried sick,
checks her pulse, her skin, her heat.
“Pulse, Mother, pulse.”
The pearls fail the vibe check.
She watches the sunrise pass,
runs after butterflies on her way back.
The pearls grow quiet in her pockets.
Now she knows that fire burns,
that pearls are only beads.
As she makes her oromadie ready to fly,
she learns
joy has always lived
in the little things.
By Queenp
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 4:45 PM UTC
She boldly walks toward the fire.
She doesn’t know it burns.
The flames excite her;
she coos as she chases “happiness.”
She is clothed in razzmatazz.
You should see how her face lights up
when her peers gaze fondly
and play with her beautiful pearls.
Today, she does not eat her asaro.
Mother is worried sick,
checks her pulse, her skin, her heat.
“Pulse, Mother, pulse.”
The pearls fail the vibe check.
She watches the sunrise pass,
runs after butterflies on her way back.
The pearls grow quiet in her pockets.
Now she knows that fire burns,
that pearls are only beads.
As she makes her oromadie ready to fly,
she learns
joy has always lived
in the little things.
By Queenp
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 4:44 PM UTC
She boldly walks toward the fire.
She doesn’t know it burns.
The flames excite her;
she coos as she chases “happiness.”
She is clothed in razzmatazz.
You should see how her face lights up
when her peers gaze fondly
and play with her beautiful pearls.
Today, she does not eat her asaro.
Mother is worried sick,
checks her pulse, her skin, her heat.
“Pulse, Mother, pulse.”
The pearls fail the vibe check.
She watches the sunrise pass,
runs after butterflies on her way back.
The pearls grow quiet in her pockets.
Now she knows that fire burns,
that pearls are only beads.
As she makes her oromadie ready to fly,
she learns
joy has always lived
in the little things.
By Queenp
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 4:44 PM UTC