i was warned
i'd fall for you.
stay away from him,
they said.
sweetie, he’s bad news.

i laughed it off,
thinking i knew better,
thinking, that this time
would be different.

i always loved a challenge.

three months it took
for my mind
to catch up
with my heart.
by then,
you’d already
moved on.

he touched my arm
as he paid for his latte —
i smiled as he talked.
he’s going to budapest.
same time as me.

he asked if i could
recommend things to see.
easy.
the ruin bars,
the chain bridge.
the gellért baths,
if you like steam.

i could be your guide —
i didn’t say —
i know a great place
i could take you.
it doesn’t need a ticket.
conveniently,
it’s located
in my bedroom.

i had a set of rules once,
i don’t know if they still apply —
especially after breaking
a quite significant one tonight:
thing is, on the first date
you shouldn’t kiss anyone.

i don’t know why i’m bothered by it
when we specifically agreed
it wasn’t going to be one.

we played like children
on borrowed time—
fingers flying across foosball handles,
ping-pong bouncing between
your laughter and mine.

after supper,
we’d sneak into the library,
to the back, past the board games,
where a dinosaur waited
to beat me, again.
the librarian smiled.
we smiled back—
but we were never that innocent.

between the shelves,
you’d look at me
like hunger dressed in human skin.
your hand found mine,
and the air cracked.

i thought of kissing you,
of not stopping.
but my ribs still ached
with someone else’s name.
and so—
i stayed still.
i stayed safe.

later, by the bricks,
you found the space between my thighs,
and i followed you
through a rusted fence
into the school yard
where we looked up
at the stars,
and said nothing.

you leaned in.
i leaned back.

because no matter
how loudly
my pulse begged
for your lips,
my heart was still
a house in ruins.

i'm a lost soul,
ash for pieces,
stranded
with failures
that pray
in quiet memories,
to be remembered.

i don’t know his last name.
or anything, really.
we both whispered,
don’t be a serial killer,
don’t be a lunatic.
it was sort of beautiful.
strangely poetic.
my hair still smells like him,
and he’s given me a gift,
a quiet relief:
she’s no longer
the last person i kissed.

(a tribute to C.S. Pacat)

on a bed
of white flowers,
etched on my wrist,
i wear it as a vow,
above the place
my pulse
tenderly blooms,
forgetting to lie.

her soft handwriting
is a reminder of a journey
i had once taken
between the lines,
forgiveness forming,
from lashes to petals,
on bruised pages.

i carry her with me,
their story, her essence,
kingdoms folding into skin,
her words marking
not only a change,
but a becoming —
the slow-burn
of identity
i can finally place.