I wish I could lose my hearing
So I didn't have to hear your laugh
So I didn't have to hear you talking
So I didn't have to hear you

I wish I could lose my smell
So I didn't have to smell your hair
So I didn't have to smell your perfume
So I didn't have to smell you

I wish I could lose my sight
So I didn't have to see your face and smile
So I didn't have to see the places we went
So I didn't have to see you

I wish I could forget you
Not because I hate you
Not because it wasn't fun
But because
Every time I hear you
Every time I smell you
Every time I see you
I die a little more
Because I love them all to death
I bleed a little more
Because I love you to until the end
And it all reminds me of you
The one I can't have

I keep living
As though love
Comes with strings attatched
And try as I might
I cannot cut through
That lie.

I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight,
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train,

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

I used to dream

about myself in the future.

I wanted to do so many things-

art,

music,

acting,

design,

teaching-

But now that I'm older,

all these dreams

shatter

like glass,

drifting away like

a feather

lost in a black tide.

And all I can do is

close my eyes

and let them fall

into the

void of my heart.