It’s not about the money itself—
it’s about being happy
with the choices
I’ve chosen for myself.

But this,
I already knew.

So why did someone from outside
have to tell me
this truth
that was already here?

Because I still don’t know
how to validate
the ideas
of my own voice.

The other day,
my friend told me
he was doing a master’s degree.

I told him
I’d left my job
and was living a quieter life.

He was happy for me.
I was happy for him.

I thought:
I wish I were doing a master’s.
He thought:
I wish I had a quiet life.

Lately,
my husband has been bothering me—
a lot.

He’s always moving,
in bed,
on the couch,
never still.

It irritates me.
But I’ve realized—
moving
is something the living do.

Which tells me
I’m more dead
than alive.

Living love is hard—
when you least expect it,
it sweeps your legs from behind,
leaves you sprawled on the ground,
bleeding out until you die.

There’s no one to save you.

I could say much more,
but I think only those who’ve lived it
know.

Your kisses
are dry across my body.
They don’t excite me anymore—
they’re like a lullaby.

I don’t feel desire,
I’m sorry.
I don’t know what happened to us—
if love cooled,
or froze completely.

I don’t want you to touch me.
My toes used to curl
every time
your hands
moved across my skin.

Now
there’s nothing.

I should keep silent more often—
today, yesterday,
and every day.

I feel useless.
I’m good for nothing.
Oh yes—
for cooking,
washing clothes,
ironing them afterward,
cleaning the house.
Yes, very useful indeed.

The problem is—
I made so many plans.
Ah, the plans!
The joy and the uncertainty of man.
The goals achieved
at the end of the journey.

Where are mine?
Gone,
long ago.

I wish I could tell you
about all my victories.
I’m sorry—
the ones I have
hold no value for me.

What I do have
are debts,
endless fatigue,
and the perpetual feeling
that I am a failure.

Yet silence,
before my failure,
brings light to my mind—
inspiration,
poetry.

I think I’ve learned
not to throw myself
back into the well I climbed out of.
And yet,
I lean over the edge,
staring down,
as if searching for something.

But there’s nothing there.
It seems the plans
I make for myself—
I throw them all down there,
as if burying them
in a grave—
my grave, once.

And now?
Another day passes.
I have made nothing
of myself.

I spent the whole day
waiting for you to get home from work
with my favorite hot dog
so we could have dinner together.

You arrived empty-handed.

I forgot
I needed to tell you
what I like.

Forgive me—
my life isn’t interesting enough
to post on Instagram,
but it’s no less colorful.

I live intensely, yes,
and those who’ve been with me
know it well.

I like a good secret.
If you want to know what happened,
just ask—
and with my words alone,
I’ll make you jealous
you weren’t there with me.

Then I’ll invite you
to live
a few lives
with a little more meaning.

You send me two messages—
“Hey love, how are you?”

I send you five, six, seven in reply.
You laugh,
but deep down,
you complain—
you think I talk too much.

The truth is,
I’m intense with my feelings.
When I express them,
I can’t hold back.

I write in ALL CAPS,
send a flood of emojis—
all so you’ll know
how much
your two little messages
made me happy today.

It’s hard for me
to read good books—
the kind that pull me in,
where I live inside the characters’ lives.

I begin to become the story,
and then, suddenly,
the urge to write bursts open in me.

Ideas tumble over each other,
and I rush to my notes app
to catch every drop of inspiration
before it slips away.

A book I could read in an hour
stretches into days,
because reading
always makes me want to write.

When did it happen?
When did we become this snowball—
cold and homeless,
rolling aimlessly
down an icy mountain?

We were doing so well, weren’t we?
Now we’re sliding downhill,
frozen,
distant,
barely speaking.

That’s why they say—
when you reach
the top of the mountain,
the only thing left
is to go down.

The truth is,
sometimes
victory lies
in leaving the past behind.

You can’t move forward
when you’re tied to the depths
of the ocean.

They say Christ
casts forgiven sins down there—
but it feels like I’m leaving
all my sins
tied like stones to my feet,
sinking with them.

If Christ exists,
He has forgiven me.
But I have not forgiven myself.

I’m like a submarine,
lost in some sea,
in the dark,
sending out signals
for someone on the surface
to hear me.

No one will come.

I should have learned by now—
princes on white horses
are a myth.

I am the prince.
I am the white horse.
I save myself.

They called us weak,
but we returned brighter—
diamonds no longer hidden,
thunder no longer hushed.

I walk into the storm,
shoulders heavy,
yet my spirit unyielding.

The world may strike,
but I carry a kingdom in my veins.
Every step forward
is a promise kept:
we will reach the home
beyond the river.

I told you no.
I should have walked away.
But I’ve been rejected so many times…
I think I’ve embraced the cause.

I should be a strong woman—
but what does that even mean?
Thinking only of myself?

Forgive me, my love—
next time,
I’ll open everything
I possibly can
for you.

Sometimes
Poetry comes
Like a slap
Across my face.

It keeps bothering me,
Begging to be written.

And I go,
“Ok… here we go.”
I’m channeling now.

I showed one of my poems to my best friend.
He was horrified.
Said I write poems as if I were a submissive woman.

I found it funny —
that’s not how I’d describe myself.

But if I think about it,
for a long time I tried to fit
into the mold of a Proverbs 31 woman —
the perfect keeper of the home,
the crown upon her husband’s head.

Eventually, I realized I didn’t fit there.
Not because she was flawed —
but because it was an expectation too small
for someone who is far greater.

I wear my own crown.

Sometimes I think my verses are bare and raw.
The same way I believe I have a way with words,
I feel I don’t.

Sometimes I wish I could shape them,
so they wouldn’t be so direct—
that I could mold them
like water atoms between my fingers.

I don’t know.
Strange.

I just don’t want to be
so dry,
sometimes.

What if I’m not good enough for it?
What if that path isn’t mine?
What if
what
if
w
h
a
t
i
f

I don’t know.

They say if you never try,
you’ll never know.

Ah, but I’m scared.
Then go scared.

(eye roll)

Life is one big piece of s.h.i.t.

Funny—
it feels like life
has crookedly aligned itself again.

The crisis has passed.
The paper says
we’re divorced,
but our bodies
say something else.

You know exactly
where to touch me,
and I want to try new things with you.

I think I love you—
not with that
passionate, reckless love,
but with a mature one.

I know I have traumas.
You have them too.
And sometimes I feel ashamed,
because I’ll have to tell people
we’re trying again
when they rooted
for it all to end.

Thank you
for agreeing
to give us
another chance.

I was a glass—
Crystal, maybe,
Or whatever you’d call it.

But I shattered on the floor—
Or was thrown there,
I’m still not sure.

What I do know
Is that all the shards
Are scattered,
And I am gathering them,
One by one,

Discovering
What I’m truly made of.

I’m writing this
knowing you’ll never read it.
I don’t even know if you you regconize me.

But sometimes
I play our song —
that beat only we would recognize,
the one you sent me in the middle of the night
when we were teenagers,
buried among countless other songs,
but this one stayed,
etched in my heart.

In our dreams,
I hold our baby in my arms
and hum it as a lullaby.
It’s perfect for that.

As I sway softly to the music,
my heart warms and aches,
as if, in some other universe,
this dream wasn’t a dream at all
but a truth.

I love you — you know that.
Or maybe the love I have to give
was never enough for you.
Or maybe it was.
I’m not sure anymore.

We are confused, inconsistent,
like the shift between seasons.
You never know whether to bring a coat or an umbrella,
so we linger in the in-between.

Either way,
the song is saved in my favorite playlist.
I know it’s in yours too.
It’s proof that what we felt for each other
was real.

Life begins mid-scene,
no script in my hands,
just a trembling voice
and the weight of the spotlight.

I stumble through lines
I never agreed to speak,
yet each word lands
as if carved in stone.

How cruel, this urgency—
to shape myself in seconds,
to wear a costume of flesh
without knowing the story.

Still, the stage keeps turning,
stars lit above my head,
and the only truth I carry:
every flaw is part of the play.

Your eyes say forever,
your silence says fleeting.
You chain me with your touch,
yet leave me doubting
what name to give this fever.

I would surrender—
life, body, soul—
if this were love.
But if it is only desire,
then I am nothing more
than a flame you’ll let burn out.

Still, I stay,
hoping you’ll call it love.

I don’t know why you showed up in my life.
Was it God’s test?
Satan’s trick?
The universe showing me
I wasn’t happy—
or that I’d never be satisfied
in that marriage?

I don’t want all the answers now.
I don’t think I even need them.

You touch me
and yes,
I melt for you.
But in other moments,
I don’t want you at all.

Something in me says
that even if you are
communicative, romantic,
and so much more—
and even if the cards say
we’re meant to work out—

I see you have much to grow.
And I wanted you grown already.

Maybe it’s because
I’ve already been through a marriage,
but I still want more from you.

You still need to be shaped.
Will it be me
who shapes you?

Is this love,
longing,
or sickness?

Because my heart is racing.
I just want to message you,
to know how you’re doing.

I feel like I’m suffocating,
like I want to run back to you—
and I want to justify it,
saying it’s your prayers working,
that it’s God telling me
I should never have left your side.

I feel delirious,
wanting to ask you
to run with me
on Sunday morning.

Wanting to come home,
to kiss your mouth,
to have our bodies pressed together.

Wanting to see your smile again,
and hear our—your—songs.

Maybe I’m dependent.

I fell in love
with the idea of you—
with the fantasy of the past,
with our story
that never truly worked.

I feel ashamed to admit it,
because I ended my marriage
for you.
But I shouldn’t have.

Now I want to say
I ended it for me—
maybe I just don’t want
to retell this story
because the truth
throws me into despair.

I’m sorry.

You’ve helped me so much,
letting me stay at your place—
but I’m truly sorry.

Maybe
the red heart
will never come.

I think we had
the most honest conversation in ages—
and it was beautiful.

I cried.
I think you cried too.

But I loved your honesty,
your open heart.
We’re growing.
We’re maturing together.
And that is priceless.

Why did you come back into my life?
Look at the trouble you’re causing—
you’ve shaken all my edges,
as you would say.

I know you want me,
but I’ve been through a marriage.
I know what it means
to give yourself in a way
that maybe, in your idea of love,
doesn’t even exist yet.

Your love still feels liquid.
I need something solid,
real—
not imagined,
not illusory.

In the end,
I need you to change.
Because I have.

My standards are higher now.
Will you be able to reach them?

I feel there’s no boundary
between me and the world.

Everything comes in,
everything goes out.

The membranes of my skin
let anyone enter—
and let all my self-love
slip away.

One day,
I asked you to save me.

And I realized
It was I who would save myself.
But I got lost—
It was only words,
Empty from my lips.

Now,
I have truly saved myself.
I’m still learning
To save myself every day.

And now I ask you:
Walk beside me,
As my partner,
As someone who will share this life with me—
Not as someone
Who must save me from myself.

I no longer need
A rescue.