I used to identify with this idea of self
but it’s become an empty canvas,
a memory of romanticizing help
from being attached to words and panic
like they are the resolution to this
normalization spell

Coming to terms has kept me awake,
knowing that perceptions are lies
and with this continued heavy weight
from seeking external answers
my eyes will forever stay open,
devoid of the internal ocean

Burnt out from each day
maybe I was meant for the night
if I’m still finding ways to shake,
still saying good morning to the stars
wondering what this all means
and where the answers are

But here is good enough
to contemplate
while we humans
peddle our ignorance,
shy from possibilities that are endless,
afraid of simplicity
that is timeless:
ignoring nowhere
when it is somewhere,
though we mustn’t bask in fear,
no one ever arrives late-
if suffering occurs from attachment
then letting go must be
the way to stay sane

Right?

Someone once asked me,
“What did you do
to become a poetess?”

I said,"nothing.
I only broke the dam of emotions
I had built over the years.

The flood of emotions
themselves turned
into poems
and I became
a poetess."
(I have my doubts)

there's this need --
in my heart..
wait.
no.
it's my soul.

my soul is the one
that has this
need..
it's oh so strong
and keeps returning.

there's this
deep ache
and craving
for the physical touch
in a way
i don't get everyday.

my soul
craves
to hold someone
in a way
thats indescribable.

my soul
craves
to be held
by someone
in a way
that makes me heal
from inside out.

it's not even
manageable anymore.

it's taking over me,
the feeling washes over
in red and blue --
craving more
and more
each time.

ten nights,
my glass held nothing
but water and light.

ten mornings,
i woke to myself
instead of forgetting.

tonight,
my heart spilled open
and the world drank me in.

he always asked for permission.
not like a formality —
not the way someone asks
after they’ve already decided.
but like he meant it.
like my no
wouldn’t make him flinch.

and every time,
i said yes.
and felt his hands
move like they’d just been
gifted a map —
not to conquer,
but to understand.

even when his fingers slipped
under the hem of my shirt,
found the small of my back —
he paused.
and gave me a chance
to say no. it’s enough.

even when his hand
brushed against my bra strap,
barely there —
he whispered sorry,
as if the air between us
deserved an apology.

i didn’t ask,
if i could touch you
further up.

and that —
that’s what i remember.

not the way he kissed me.
not the taste of that night.
but the way his respect
intoxicated my mind.

looking back,
i think that was the moment
he opened me up,
let my feelings spill,
whilst keeping his own still.
and god.
i loved him for that.