i fall in love,
like it’s a dare.
no helmet, no warning,
like being in the middle of nowhere,
when it starts pouring.

my hollow heart, unprotected,
waits to be washed away
with echoes of the silence,
that grow too heavy,
until they strain.

the flood begins within,
soaking through skin, through veins,
tainted by you, to my core,
with a weight
i was never built to bear.

the water rises, inch by inch,
but i don’t gasp.
i’m prepared.

i drown quietly, without struggle,
as if this ache has earned its place.
the tide carves out my ruins,
leaving nothing, but empty space.

and maybe that’s the mercy —
not the saving, but the cease.
when the water stills inside me,
there’s a moment of release.

dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
if i had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
i would’ve tried to explain who i was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay —
structured, unsure, incomplete.

but you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
i hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

did you get some of the things
i’ve spent years aching for?
answers to the never-ending whys —
why i keep repeating patterns,
why i stay when i should leave,
why i doubt what’s already mine?
did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
and love —
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

i don’t expect letters,
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please —
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when i could’ve turned away.

i’m looking forward to meeting you.
not for answers —
but just to see who survived.
if you’re still standing,
then maybe so am i.

I'm an efficient mover
My first time was at seven
My mother woke me up
Before the sun could rise
Hush, "csitt", quick
The moving van arrived.
The furniture, a few,
Landed in the back,
My father crying softly,
Kissed goodbye to the cats.
My friends, neighbours,
And all we knew
Slept, as though nothing happened.

The next time I was eight,
Not much wiser than before,
My mother said she'd made a mistake,
She couldn't care for us no more.
This time there was no van,
Belongings were sold
There was only my mother
My cat
And I.
My brother left behind.
And also, the cat.
I lost so much more than it seemed
That I didn't know back then.

The third time I was twelve,
With my father stuck at work
We snuck out during the day.
I didn't change schools,
It was the same town,
A street away.
Hidden, under a tree
Hoping to never hear the fight.
My brother returned,
A girl followed,
That was our new family.
Although crowded in the same room,
For a moment,
I swear,
We were happy.

The fourth time I was fourteen,
Back into the nest we flew
Teachers said
Education is the future.
So to help with school,
We listened to the pressure
Of child services,
"A family that is together is a bigger help
Than anything else."
Except, what are you, ******* blind.

The fifth time I was fifteen,
I was put in an institution
Against my will.
It was for the best.
"Stop being selfish,
We need to save money."
What a burden, a child,
Its currency expenses.
At this one time I returned
For the weekend
My mother was gone,
She had left.

My sixth time was at eighteen,
Jumped into the arms of a boy
Who gave me an out.
A learning curve, a lesson,
One of the great mistakes of life.

My seventh time at nineteen.
Back into the house,
Helping my father get over
His drunken accidents
Tending to his scars
Trying to earn the great education
Everybody was preaching about.
It wasn't until later
My mental health came crashing.
It was time to skip
Earn some cash
See what I could make of myself.

That was my eight, twenty
Such a grown-up number,
Lived with boys,
Then older boys,
And whilst they cared for me,
I cared less for myself.
The era of failing had begun.
It took me less than six
Trying to scrape a life together
With someone I called friend
Only realising I wasn't strong enough,
So I ran.

My ninth, back into the house
My mother was back as well
Surprised her when I showed up
With a suitcase and backpack.
But in they took me
Left me to do my thing,
Let me wallow in self pity.
Ignored the demons that slept
In my bed.
They feasted on my dreams
And got stronger by the day
I carried them with me
Wherever I went.

My tenth, at twenty-two
The things I did for enough to escape
This great country of mine,
The ****** abuse, the hurtful words,
Boys will be boys,
You're too sensitive, said work.
Thank god for Tumblr.
For online friends, for all those chats
Headcanons and theories
That gave me confidence
To arrive in a country
That didn't speak my language
Despite me saying, 'sorry, what'
For the hundredth time
My love happened right on the spot
For theirs seemed unconditional.

My eleventh happened at twenty-three,
Different people formed a bond,
Late night talks, lectures, fun,
I was meant for this house.
Incredible
How much happens in a few years
For all that is worth,
I failed and grew at the same time.

My twelfth, at twenty-seven,
Bittersweet and new,
With a boy I loved and thought,
Could help me endure.
A short-lived memory
In the distance, that is.
A quick escape,
A step
Towards adult life.

My thirteenth, still at twenty-seven,
What I'm living now,
Exploring a new area,
With its medieval town.
The next season of
Something Beautiful
With the added spice of a cat.
I'm hoping not to leave.
I'm hoping not to move.
Not to make a move.
If I do, I might stir the darkness.
I shall let it sleep for now.

the melody can be heard again.
i know the notes by heart.
i try to rip them from memory —
but i can’t.

the rhythm’s different,
but the tune’s the same.

like a possessed demon
it chases me underground,

and yet i sing.
sing along to it
the entire time.

over the snowy mountain peaks
a star is gliding through space
as i’m strolling, embracing the breeze
on saint anne’s frozen lake.

icicles have crept up on the trees,
all the living have run away.
sorrow lingers in the silent eve,
dimming prayers at winter’s gate.

the cold flurry of air penetrates the bone,
reeds wince with the chill.
a flock of birds pass by like ghosts,
their shapes trembling in fear.

oscillating wings carve the way.
as they fade away in the sky,
a new thought is born i can’t shake:
this is my home. i’ve arrived.

these days, my soul feels heavy,
bursting with a secret still untold.
bearing it, it scorches steady,
but you broke our dream i’d hold.

your cruelty lived in me, raging.
i long craved what you’d denied.
it took an age to stop the blaming —
i, too, had darkness inside.

and yet, to this day, i’d circle back,
turn the bitter wheel of time,
re-play our teenage soundtrack
with a sip or two of wine.

knowing everything, i’d hit rewind,
see where our road leads to,
appreciate you, with a mature mind,
and undo all of your wounds.

maybe we’d stay ‘in the zone’,
maybe we’d claim the world —
wander every corner of our home,
or england’s cold and grim shores.

we wouldn’t be so far away,
pretending, frigid strangers.
i’d know all of life’s mistakes,
all your whispered prayers.

defiant thing, the past.
it offers less than what it stole.
my heart still pulls toward
a time when yours was whole.

i’d know you’re not tormented by
neither the past, nor the present.
i’d know you healed with time,
and wish our sorrow never happened.

but if one day, you still look back,
know, my heart is pure.
as you turn back, breathe for me —
then don’t look back at all.

i can't seem to wash you off my skin.
yours accidentally touched mine.
as shadows fall onto the eclipse,
my heart turns into a landmine.

exhausted it lays, beating faster,
whenever you're on my mind.
breaths, drawn in sharper,
i can't seem to shut you out.

it's ridiculous, i say to myself,
the power you have on me.
thoughts of you send splinters
throughout every inch of my body.

your presence itself feels like a sin.
you're all i think about.
my wishes, never leaving my lips,
could cause the stars to burn out.

it all weighs heavy on my chest,
like ruins no one came to save.
so i leave it there—forgotten, rotting—
just wishful thinking
digging its own grave.