i don’t think i’ve ever been
more in love with a city
than i was with you.
it’s inexplicable.

the more i see
this spirit of community,
of togetherness
where i live now,
the more i miss my real home.

it might be another country,
but you took me in,
held me like your own.

one hundred
and sixty thousand people,
yet it was always one:
the date whose flatmate
played in my favourite band,
the pub where a singer walked in
and we had to act cool,
even with fifty strangers, once,
crammed into a living room.

you were secret codes
and piano bars,
ropes above the thames,
carnivals and day festivals.
meeting someone,
and keeping them forever.

it was never just work.
it was passageways, and talent
rising like ivy through stone,
having the world
at my fingertips
as though sitting on a throne
without having a clue.

but i still did
what i thought i should,
and found myself alive
in the whole of you.

money is sacred to me—
because i never had it.
we borrowed bread
from neighbours
at the end of the month,
waited for donations,
and watched my father
settle his debts
to bar owners
instead of us.

i learnt to sit small
in the corner
with peach juice,
while he ordered
beer and pálinka.
he kept bottles in the pantry,
pretending we couldn’t hear
the corks easing free.

when i left,
i carried eighty pounds
in my pocket,
with a luggage filled with air,
a week’s worth of clothes,
a soft blanket, no duvet.
but a hunger for something
i couldn’t yet name.

it was freedom.
never money.

now, that it’s mine,
it does nothing to me.
it bends, but doesn’t hurt.
i saved, built with it,
learnt to breathe
on my terms.
it comes, and leaves
when it wants.
and that, to me,
is wealth enough.

that question,
aimed at someone else,
split me open.

half of these are about you.
but half of them — it’s all me.
the one who isn’t pretty.
the one who isn’t well.

i thought i knew
what the book meant.
i only wanted to hold
something that was mine.
but it grew teeth,
and turned into
a launch party,
a press release,
my words living
in other people’s minds.

all this weight,
kept hidden,
only allowing
my closest friends
to get a glimpse
at the truth behind the veil,
turned into
a doorway i couldn’t close.

have you not read her poetry?

i don’t want to be
polished anymore.

so read it.
it’s all me.
the way it always
should have been.

our canvases were born
from chaos at midnight.
colour spilling with the smoke
of cigarettes waiting
patiently in the tray.
we wove them in
with the brushstrokes
then let it breathe
so the magic would dry.

'darkness is coming',
dark blue across white
a bird slurping
rainwater from petals.
or something like that.
art is supposed to
make you feel something.
ours wasn't there to be nice.

one day,
it wasn't there at all.

i came home,
and found them gone —
shredded and torn.
the reminder,
that hands crafted them
that wouldn't caress you,
was unbearable.

i'm sorry.
that i shouted at you.
that i couldn't respect
you needed space,
a clear head
away from the clutter
that came with me.

i would have done the same.
we don’t get to choose
who we let in,
and who we love.
the only choice we have
is whether to erase it
slowly,
or all at once.

i poured half a grand
down the sink,
watched the bottles bleed
their amber and ruby
in the drain.
a sacrifice —
a promise
after a thousand lies
dressed in shame.

my world hears detox:
lemon water,
fizzy drinks.
not my veins
beating to break free,
clawing closer
to a single drop.

my husband says
i’m not what i think i am —
because i can stop.

as if stopping
wasn’t a war every night,
prayers whispered to a god
i’m yet to find.

but there’s a circle
where i can admit:
hi.
i’m an alcoholic.

in the half-light
their voices don’t press me
for whys,
or ask when i slip.
they don’t judge
when i wake again
struggling to hold
my coffee,
hands shaking.

i swore not to give it
any more room.
but i still speak of it,
and carry its shadow
to my secret crowd.

no one should be alone
when entering the fight.

sorry, no pets
no pets allowed
constantly,
no matter
how much higher
we go above asking price.

they tell us,
tenants have rights,
to formally beg
to keep a pet,
and landlords
must consider
each request.

bite me.

because ares
is apparently
dirtier than a child,
crayon on the walls,
smearing god knows what on tile,
sticking stuff up nose and ears,
to guarantee a hospital stay overnight.

please.

he drinks from human glass.
sleeps like a king.
catches butterflies
and runs at the sound
of a door opening.

he’s neater than i am.
neater than you.
what’s your excuse
for the issues reported,
but never followed through?

got married
at twenty-nine.
never planned it,
never wanted to —
until it felt right.

but if i could,
i’d rewind the tape,
strip it all back,
do it differently.

no family
because you’re supposed to,
no friends
because they had us at theirs.

no fortune spent
on a venue,
music and meals,
waiters and bouquet.

we got caught up
in the planning,
caught up in the daze —
the RSVPs,
the website,
the save-the-dates.

if i could do it again,
it would be just you and me,
paperwork signed
in a quiet room,
me wearing my raccoon tee.

don’t get me wrong —
i love the photos.
i loved the dress.
i loved the faces
of everyone there.
but the ceremony,
the nerves,
the performance —
that’s not us.

if i could do it again,
it would be bare,
honest,
without disguise —
just ourselves
when no one’s around.