my husband's edition.
serves: zero.

prep time depends
on how long it takes
to ruin good produce.

ignore the recipe notes,
yet follow everything,
measure with a scale.

somehow still oversalt,
add enough pepper
to weaponize the broth.
let it simmer, thicken,
until you’re questioning
your methods.

when its texture turns
from soup to sponge,
try to rescue it
with store-bought cream
and forty-five minutes later,
hovering between uber
and just eat,
plate it with a hint of regret
and the admittance of defeat.

my boss asked me
to have a coffee chat
with the new girl.

talked about goals,
progression,
settling in —
it was the kind
that made me proud
for having
such a great team.

two hours later,
she quit.

someone said
that turning pain
into art
takes guts.

they said it
about one of my poems —

called it inspiring.

then my job is done.
all i ever wanted
was to find someone
my words resonate with.
and in the process,
somehow,
i ended up
inspiring myself.

the pain i worked on,
moulded into poetry,
became my muse.
and when i feel low,
empty,
or bruised,
it calls to me
with its relentless tides,
half-formed stanzas
and mismatched lines,
until its whispers
become a symphony
i thought
only my heart
could hear.

i don’t need hurt
for my art anymore.
just give me a feeling,
give me a word,
and i’ll ask my poetry
to get back to work.

back home,
the calendars
were full of us,
names for every day.

we took sweets to school,
wished each other well
in the corridors,
as if the day itself
was a friend.

bonbons waited,
a handful of flowers,
the warmest hugs.
they were small,
but made the day
feel special.
for it was.

here, in my second home,
there are none.
i never really cared
for name days,
not the way others did —
but i miss the fuss
and the unspoken promise.

today slipped by
like a coin
rolled under the bed,
with a thought
gnawing at me.
perhaps growing up
is simply learning
to accept
that some traditions end.

i don't think about you anymore.
except when i become
my own lowest point.
you cross my mind then.
briefly,
grazing the edges
of my reality,
impersonating a friend.

but i don't need you anymore.
so, every time you knock,
trying to sell,
wearing your shiny labels
like a badge,
i'll shut the door in your face
and let the night take you back
to the abyss you crawled out from,
veiled in shame.

periods are not that bad.
except when it feels like
i’ve split my spine
on concrete.

if it was something
men had to go through,
they’d get paid leave.
once a month
for at least a day.

i’ve taken codeine,
my brain is fuzzy
but it doesn’t stop the pain.
i can feel my pelvis
snap like a twig
as i turn at my desk —
still, somehow,
with a smile on my face.

thing is,
sometimes it’s not that bad.
it hurts
like a storm of glass
piercing through skin
but we do what’s expected
without talking about it.

but on days like this,
when i’m half in my grave,
and, i wish i was joking,
i’d really appreciate
if someone,
anyone,
just took out
this decayed,
rotten thing.

i find myself
praying
for that sort
of sorcery to exist.

anyone?

i tried to drink
my feelings away
until i nearly drowned
but their grief,
patient as a vulture,
kept waiting for me
even at the gates
of the afterlife.

i’ve been on happy pills
for half a year.
more often than not,
i feel like a buried seed,
twisted and tangled
in a graveyard of dreams,
yearning for the light
the darkness has taken from me.

like a river
carving through rock,
i do what’s expected:
show up,
go to the shops,
hydrate,
light candles,
wash my hair,
bake,
then exercise,
get up on a stage
where i pour
my feelings out.

i’m in recovery.

i don’t drink.
i’m pretty sure
i’ve tried everything.

yet, i feel like a canvas
stripped of colour,
a paintbrush,
bristles frayed,
dragging the last stroke
of a story
that i fear will end
before i reach
the last page.

six months
after leaving home,
i returned for the holidays.
it wasn’t the warmth
that stayed with me
but the shortage of praise.

i didn’t expect it —
i didn’t expect anything,
just a friendly check-in.

i was surprised to learn
that the people i worked with,
part of the reason i left,
were so smothered
by their own bitterness
they wished for me to fail —
to run back home
after a few weeks,
admit the dream
was too silly,
too frail.

they didn’t hate me,
just my courage —
that i dared
to refine my life
while theirs
stayed the same.

busy in a world
i could call mine,
i remained gone
and let their silence
become my applause.

you said
it would work out.

it didn’t.

i hate
that i knew
i’d be right.

you mock my pain,
cheering me on.
like —
for real.

i’m annoyed.
a bit hurt.
disappointed,
because my first attempt
didn’t work.

you tell me it’s okay —
when it’s not.
you say it’s an easy fix —
i know it is.
yet i sit in the grump,
because i wasted time,
energy,
looking forward to this.

if it’s a let-down,
you say, ten percent of it is.
i say, ninety —
so you argue,
i’m too pessimistic.

bite me.

you think i'm empty.
a broken code.
a *****, a waste
of human skin.
you say,
i'm too pretty
to be like this.

this isn't a choice.

i feel too much
for there to be space
for what you call
lust.

you don't need an apology.
no one does.
my brain is not a crime scene
for you to investigate,
neither is my heart.
you may think me cold
but you've never seen
the bonfire,
always kindling,
for the ones i keep close.

outside, the cold air
unwraps my skin.
i’m listening to a friend
tell us a story
that feels rehearsed,
meant to impress
but all i can think about
how sweet my drink is
and the length of that girl’s dress
across the street.

then i see him —
half-familiar, waving.
i don’t remember his name,
but he does me,
goes on about
jobs he’s changed
and the old team.
i’m the only one left.

he asks if life
is treating me well.
i nod.

he asks if i’m happy.

i look down,
searching for the answer
between cigarette ash
and concrete.

“if you need to think about it,”
he says,
“you’re not.”

his words stay with me
for the rest of the night,
then the week,
then the month.

for the longest time
i thought i needed to
return to the child
i was.

i spent half my life
unlearning trauma,
only to lose sight
on the woman
i wanted to become.

you sit sentinel,
ears tilted toward
the quiet hush of rain
as the world falters,
holding her breath,
listening to your heart
as it painfully breaks.

you can’t go outside.
the colours of the garden
and the field,
even your mousies hide,
waiting for the storm to pass.

a tiny king
with a kingdom
he cannot touch.

the state audit office claims,
emotional maturity,
social skills,
expressing yourself
are girls’ traits.

schools reward us
but not the boys —
they are traumatised,
underperform
not just because of a bra stap
but because they need
more risks, space
and maths
as if
history is feminine
and language
is something
only a girl can speak.

they said, boys need
a strategy
to prepare them
for adulthood
as if we aren’t already
living it,
patching holes
in our own lives,
carrying the world
while no one
teaches us how.

researchers however
consider it justified
to dig deeper
and find out
why boys can’t keep up
hoping to tailor a way
that fits them better.

so tailor it.
add a hem.
cut the cloth
but leave us out.
we’ve been altered enough
to their taste
since the dawn of time.

to me,
words mattered
more than acts.
you could pull me close
with a single sentence.
the right phrase,
muttered ever so soft,
could mend
what a kiss could not.

my mind doesn’t care
for big gestures.
they don’t keep me
up at night.
the way you said,
i’ve never had
a real conversation
with her
the way we have,
however, might.

i can't climb out
of the hollow.
small victories, they say,
take pleasure in them,
before they slip
through your lungs
like air that won't stay.

but everywhere i turn,
darkness throws a fit.

half a book done,
thirty days clean—
the kind of milestones
that make me feel... me.
instead
i sit like a ghost
beneath the frog’s ****,
waiting for tomorrow
as if it's a fresh start,
not full of uncertainty.  

nothing happens.

i stare at the screen,
binge never have i ever
until my eyes bleed—
but it doesn't help.
nothing does.
heaviness lingers
like a secret kept,
as i wait for time to pass.

all i do is wait.
for a meeting,
for a friend,
to hold that ****** chip
in my hand—
all i do is wait.
not because i'm strong.
but because i'm so ****
tired sometimes
to let go.

i had no idea how heavy
the heart can be
when it clings
to a dream long gone.

i didn’t need reminding
of how selfish i’ve been.
i stayed away
to find clarity, space—
and who i was meant to be.

my roots are still fixed in the dark.

but i know now
what it’s like
reaching through the clouds,
and being crowned by the sun.

with my first chip in hand.
after thirty days,
i’m ready to speak again,
and let love back into my heart.

they told you no.
they meant never.

they tried to carve
a life without passion—
because passion is poverty,
and you deserved better.

just wait, little one.
the world will carry
your name on its tongue.
the dream they stole,
quiet as a matchstick,
burned through a decade.

today
you’ll strike it—

and the whole sky
will burst into flames.

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.

i hate myself
for becoming the person
who cries over nothing.
except it’s never nothing —
it’s the bruise
still sore
from loving him.

i’m not myself anymore,
just a sour taste
that won’t leave
my own mouth.

i skipped therapy this week,
ashamed to arrive
empty-handed,
with nothing worth
laying down.

i slipped
back into the rabbit hole,
where the air is thin
and every echo is mine.

i wish i could say
i’ll work this out.
i just need to heal —
a bit longer.
then maybe
i’ll fly.

almost everyone had left
by the time the clock
struck midnight.

you kissed me
at the top of the stairs,
then, after getting more wine,
announced to the room,
i’m staying here,
by the way.

my housemate
offered you blankets —
bless him,
so unaware.

you said
you’d take over my bed,
and i could sleep
wherever i wanted.

that was the night
i realised
i was madly in love.
i knew it may hurt,
but i couldn’t refuse
signing up.

i don’t want us
to be anything.
but sometimes i wonder
if i crossed your mind
the way you drift through mine.

why else would you give me
your plushie crocodile —
just in case
i miss you
while you’re away?

we’ve been spending
so much time together.
you keep finding ways
back into my head.

we’re not going to be a thing.
you told me.
i told you.
we shouldn’t work.

but baby —
we do.

(a tribute to becky albertalli)

i learnt english at sea,
traded my tongue
for salt and compass,
but it was becky
who brought me back to land —
when a boy fell in love
with another boy,
and his words dared me
to claim that same love
as my own.

her book lived on my nightstand,
spine worn to a gentle curve,
sentences humming in my head
until they belonged to me
as much as they belonged to her.

she offered me the strength
to feel less ashamed
of being different,
gave me a fire that burned
through the blame
i was ready to bear myself.

she gifted me with confidence
to leave my homeland
my heart outgrew,
and find my way to a place
where love was not a secret —
a shore worth swimming to.

i cried last night
because you weren’t mine.
i cried because you hurt me.
i cried because i wanted you
to do it all over again.

ten nights,
my glass held nothing
but water and light.

ten mornings,
i woke to myself
instead of forgetting.

tonight,
my heart spilled open
and the world drank me in.

a rush of ink
on the back of a bill,
thanking me
for taking care
of you
and your family.

i still have it —
it’s framed.

never meet your heroes,
they say.
but what if their art
scatters the darkness
we all try to navigate?

i was called a witch
more than once
for wanting to craft potions,
to erase the wounds
love left behind.

i burned its letters,
willed the wind
to carry off the pain,
lit candles
to hush the tears
that fell like rain.

i never prayed to the devil —
only for myself
to grow stronger,
composed,
untamed.

the spell took hold,
i can entertain
your idea of a witch.
maybe i am.
but if you plan to burn me,
you’d better do it
while you can.

sometimes
i need to remind myself
you’re my therapist,
not my buddy.
but man,
i wish i could text you.

i’m breaking
to pieces,
tearing
at the seams —

could you please
clear your calendar
for me?

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

i write of heartache.
it's all i've ever known.
so if you want a poem,
you'll have to break my soul.

he always asked for permission.
not like a formality —
not the way someone asks
after they’ve already decided.
but like he meant it.
like my no
wouldn’t make him flinch.

and every time,
i said yes.
and felt his hands
move like they’d just been
gifted a map —
not to conquer,
but to understand.

even when his fingers slipped
under the hem of my shirt,
found the small of my back —
he paused.
and gave me a chance
to say no. it’s enough.

even when his hand
brushed against my bra strap,
barely there —
he whispered sorry,
as if the air between us
deserved an apology.

i didn’t ask,
if i could touch you
further up.

and that —
that’s what i remember.

not the way he kissed me.
not the taste of that night.
but the way his respect
intoxicated my mind.

looking back,
i think that was the moment
he opened me up,
let my feelings spill,
whilst keeping his own still.
and god.
i loved him for that.

i notice
every little thing
he does.

his hand on my waist
as he slips past.
fingers grazing skin
when we both lean
against the pole.
our eyes meet,
as i hand him
the word
he was reaching for.

the other day
he gave me a side-hug.
stroked my back,
slid to my arm,
and i forgot
how to breathe.

then i missed my bus,
so we could talk,
just a bit longer.
longer
than we should have.

when i finally left,
i melted into him
without thinking.

i felt horrified,
almost betrayed.
because next time
i might kiss him
if my mind can’t
hold the reins.

every thought of him
is a slip toward the rim,
and i’m falling.
with hands tied.
i’m falling in love with him.

people leave me
like wind leaves the gate.
pushed open, unlatched.
shapes altering to blur
as i watch them
dissolve in the distance.

i wish to crown myself
the ice queen i once was—
safe, untouchable,
heart locked behind glass.

then the silence wouldn’t bite.
and i wouldn’t lie awake—
wondering why the hell
their world moved on,
and why mine stayed.

we play two rounds of pool.
he beats me twice.
now the air between us
is nothing but teeth and heat—
and in my head
he’s already got me
on the table,
thirsty for every part of me.

he grins, asks
exactly what i’m thinking,
and god,
he’s right—
it is too fast.
a week in,
we’re breathing
nothing but each other.

so i settle into his lap
just to rest my head,
to counteract—
this.
us.

but his mouth
finds mine,
and the world
tilts open.

we were friends once,
until you shut me out,
angry that your lover —
the married one —
tried to take me
when he wasn’t allowed.

the blame poured on me.

but i begged you back,
forgiving him, and you.
call me naïve,
but i forgave myself, too —
though there wasn’t much to.

i still thank heaven
you left me sore and reeling
before my wedding.

i’d have hated for you
to show up, smiling,
immortalised in photos,
as a maid of pretending.

my phone was on silent,
and i missed his call.
“i called you by accident,”
he said, when i rang back,
“i have nothing to say.”

nineteen minutes later,
his sweet sound of nothing
was still on the line,
untangling his day.

he said
i wasn’t feminine.
he said it twice,
hoping the echo
would re‑write
my code
of not being lady‑like.

he came to the conclusion
we should stop.
i talked like a mate.
and didn’t fit
his narrow idea
of a woman.

and i told him,
i won’t fold myself
to fit his frame.
no one
gets to offer lessons

on
how
we
should
be
shaped.

(a tribute to richard walters)

under the soft stage light
richard walters performed
a song called awards night
he’d written about elliott smith.
my heart ached quietly
for the ghost his voice carried.

sofar fairy –
as i call her in my head –
said i looked like
i was in the clouds,
living in the memory
of someone else.

his energy followed me
into the next morning at work.
half-stunned, half-joking,
they’d insinuate
my joy must have come
from someone’s warm embrace.

how could i explain to them,
that music and words
can whisper through your ribs,
settle in your chest,
and lift you higher
than any touch permits?

richard’s voice just lingered
like the aftertaste of honey,
like rain caught in leaves.
i carried him home in my pulse,
where elliott still lives,
softly whispering between
the notes of his guitar strings.

he kissed me
by the river —
soft, sweet,
almost right.

but he wasn’t you.
and he didn’t notice
that quietly,
our magic slipped away.

he sent me a text,
still in a haze,
wearing the memory
of my taste
on his lips.

as i read it, i cried.

because i wanted the boy
who broke me,
instead of the boy
who tried.

i was still there,
choking on my bitterness,
twenty minutes
after our session ended.

i felt awful. anxious.
he had a client outside,
waiting —
maybe also collapsing
under their own weight
they couldn't carry.

“look at the clock,”
i said. “let’s wrap this up.”
guilt eating away at me.

so he stood up,
reached for it,
and reset the time.

like it meant nothing.
like he knew healing
cannot be rushed,
because the minutes
are ticking.

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.