You dreamed me in candlelight,
soft edges, no shadow, no spine;
a shape to fill the hollows
of your unfinished self.
Not a woman,
but a whisper of one.

You named me gentle before I spoke,
kind before I doubted,
yours before I breathed.

I stayed quiet while you wrote
the story you wanted me to live in;
a love with no clauses,
no agency, no weight.
A devotion with doll-joints,
pliant and smiling.

But I was never a mirror.
I cracked the glass
by simply being real.

You called it betrayal
when I stepped outside the frame.
You wept for the ruin
of your castle of mist
and blamed the wind.

But I was not the storm.
I was the truth.
The quiet, unbeautiful, necessary truth.
I never left you.
You just never saw me;
only your hope
wearing my skin.

© fey (24/05/25)

I'd rather
sway in the paradox waltz of myself, alone–
dance in the caleidoscope mazes; forlorn,
than mind where my big, dream-shaped steps intervene with yours–
those reality-driven conformist labels, your god-fearing pose;
keep track of all the nuances we're intermingling with,
just to make you comfortable.

I'd rather be
my forever overdose.

© fey (11/05/25)

I want to
sleep under the rainy cacophony of spring,
feel how
life returns to its buds in one graceful fling.
Life.
Are you here with me still?

© fey (18/04/25)

Sometimes the shadow of you still lingers
in the books you once recommend,
among the verses of the bands you mentioned.
You ruined the experience of certain videogames too; the one where you spoilered
a certain character death in Assassin's Creed II;
said Silent Hill was silly for foreshadowing monsters with the soundtrack to creep out a *****,
****-talked Alan Wake for using a flashlight to eliminate the enemies;
but forgot to mention that you were a monster too.
Yeah, you liked to portrait my favorite games as silly and aloof,
what were you so insecure about?
I remember how you pushed me to touch you,
in this tent when we went out with our class back then.
Didn't accept me feeling scared and not wanting to.
You didn't accept my boundaries then and demanded other atrocities as well.
Where you never ashamed?
You contacted me ten years later, while I was playing Kingdom Hearts with a friend.
Had the worst panic attack but that didn't interest you the slightest, am I right?
When I found out your twitter and how you whined about still being a ******,
have you forgotten to mention what you did to me back then?
I guess that would be too inconvenient.
******* about having anxiety and depression,
you put me through hell and you dare to speak of mental health?
You are still disrespecting women like this pathetic Incel
you still are.
And guess what? I still read Eragon and play Dark Souls and Halo and Skyrim without you butting in.
I won't let you ruin the fun I made for me.
Goodbye then.
Goodbye for real.

© fey (18/04/25)

Have you seen the rain in grey Berlin today?

Above the cherry blossom's egg shell trees
where we
engaged in critical ideas at three;
pure white thoughts rippling beneath
miasmas in the asphalt creeks,
primordial, yet still so meek.

The city lights ate hopes with these
canine teeth from West to East,
fluorescent mouth to feed.
Still I am at ease;
about remaining crumbs to keep;
at the border of our fading sleep.
Am I a sheep?

I saw the rain in grey Berlin today,
tomorrow it may be too late.

© fey (15/04/25)

They dressed me in whispers, in silken deceit,
Painted my face with a love incomplete.
A puppet, they called me, a doll made of glass,
Shaped by their hands, by a past I surpassed.

They spoke with conviction, their tongues laced with gold,
Took what they wanted and left me in the cold.
A prize on a shelf, a mirror of need,
Fed on control while I learned how to bleed.

But cracks tell a story, and glass learns to shatter,
Chains lose their strength when the soul grows much flatter.
I gathered the pieces and stitched them with flame,
No longer their object, no longer their gain.

Now when I speak, my voice shakes the air,
No longer a whisper, but truth laid out bare.
They see me, they fear me; no longer confined,
For I am not theirs, I am finally mine.

© fey (13/02/25)

Resting in the rift
of January’s frozen stillness,
where ephemeral light
breaks through the rooftop's
halogenic heart strings.
Above me,
the gray-streaked
shyness of the treetops,
and my feet drift through
the fragile maze of asphalted
spring crops.
From afar, clausthrophobic crowds
press on
toward a remnant of living transience,
stretched across a pale blue ground,
fluttering jade-green,
the bleak expression of the working man's transgressing weariness.
And where I still went to school today,
fatigue
lingers on.
And where I still went to function for society
fatigue
carries on.

© fey (25/01/25)