Love is presented to you already dead, already beginning to wither.
No hope, no greed, no desperation could ever bring life back to the dead.
Everlasting love—
a mere illusion created by humans,
those who hold dead flowers without knowing
when the petals will fall:
some one by one,
others all at once.
The rare flower may remain,
but there is no guarantee
that pouring your pain and longing
into a connection
will ever be safe.
Why are human relationships so fragile.
Why can I not have someone
who is unconditionally, permanently mine,
without doubt.
Should I reject romantic love,
or is the uncertainty of “what if,”
of never being handed a flower,
worse than the pain of being alone?
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC
The heat of the sun shines upon my face,
a reminder of my unattainable longing for your warmth —
that radiant aura of life
that made even the brightest sun
look pale in comparison.
It makes me want to cower in dark corners,
to make myself so small, so insignificant,
that time might simply let me wither,
and your words — sharp and soft all at once —
might finally lose their echo.
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC
As the memories faded away,
I grasped the strings and held only the strings
for hours as I wrote it down
a list of joy
beside a stack of old photographs.
I traced the faces of the many people in my life
and wished I could warn the girl I used to be.
My core is gathering dust,
yet the photographs stay polished,
as if they’re the ones still living.
And I wondered how long a person can go on
surviving on the remnants of old memories.
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 1:03 PM UTC
If I laid myself bare, would the wind greet me?
If I laid myself bare, would someone see me—
wrap me in warmth so I don’t die in the cold?
No. If I laid myself bare,
the wind would grow bold,
the rain would pour to drown me out in spite.
And people would pass,
eyes fixed ahead,
never a glance.
It’s truly significant
how insignificant we are.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 2:50 PM UTC
I step out—
the storm has passed,
but the puddles shimmer pink.
Let it go.
The next one appears
out of nowhere.
Pink bleeds into red,
and my shoes
don’t look like mine anymore.
I clench my fists
to hold onto anything—
but my skin
doesn’t feel like his.
Just let it go,
I whisper—
but how can I heal
when it comes out of nowhere?
I can’t stop stepping into him.
Him.
Him.
Him.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 10:01 PM UTC
I wonder if the way I see the sun
is the way you see the sun.
Are our perspectives so different
that we can’t agree
on the reflections of its light?
If the light falls on different things
for you and me,
can there be love
without understanding
on the simple things?
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 3:40 PM UTC
Your first taste
made the aftertaste
bittersweet.
On your hands,
the gleam of a silver tray.
On your lips,
red thread,
tied to my lips.
Promises exchanged in dark corners,
your shadow consoling mine.
Grey fields bloomed in colors bold.
In time, the thread grew taut,
cut by the blade in your hand.
A love once cherished,
now perished in fading colors.
Only a lingering taste remains.
Bittersweet.
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
Wrapped in my warmest wool blanket,
coldness resides in my veins.
My body aches for your embrace,
to revel in warm memories.
It was just a one time mistake...
The ghost of your cologne,
lingering faintly above the detergent’s scent,
makes my nausea strangle with warning.
You don’t love me- otherwise your
scent wouldn’t be on her bed too.
—Betrayal is not a mistake; it's a choice that reveals character.
Jun 15, 2025
Jun 15, 2025 at 4:28 PM UTC
your own demons
give you strength
when there’s no one
to hold onto
that’s why they’re
so hard to let go.
your demons reek fire,
and your energy flares to life,
angry hatred is stronger than ever.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
I see some kids heading home from school,
bent over from the weight on their backpack.
In Palestine, children bear the politician’s schemes on their backs.
And bend further down,
grieving their parents’ lifeless forms.
Children, who used to be whole,
have their limbs torn off,
skin hanging from their faces and hands.
On my visit to the shop,
I see a kid throwing a tantrum over not getting sweets.
In Palestine, children hear cries of the wounded,
screaming for help.
While the world stands silent, aid delayed.
Red capes, a stone in their hands and a imaginary knife in their
teeth, they die as martyrs.
Politicians, no way you’d wield ruthless might,
If they were white children in your sight.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC