we got married in october.
on the twenty-ninth.
exactly three years after
we both got drunk
to face our feelings
and say the truth out loud.

that was the day
we became us.
messy, imperfect,
a little bit shy.

i still don’t know
how it happened.
as if i wasn’t even there.
it’s like watching us
on hallmark
with a bag of popcorn in hand.

you were exactly
what i needed.
what i longed for.
after so many doubts,
so many wasted breaths —
thank god i kept
rooting for myself.

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.

my voice is so different
in hungarian —
not just in sound,
but in the way i write.

my native tongue
carries a heavy,
almost ceremonial weight:
dense metaphors,
long clauses,
layered imagery —
a gothic building
full of raw emotions
underneath.

in english, i’m leaner,
sharper;
i cut quicker
to the emotional base,
breaking lines
where the breath catches,
leaving more air
around the portrait.

my first voice,
the one i was born into,
is deeper,
lived-through,
as if my heart has found
a thousand ways
to walk the earth
and carry its sound.

maybe because my core
has always been the same,
holding onto stories observed;
only the tongue
has changed.

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.

we went through
three bottles of wine,
spent the evening
in the embrace of
soft conversations
on table thirteen.
it was four o’clock.
sun nowhere near.

you moved closer,
leaned in,
and i froze.
i couldn’t breathe.

i had no idea
what you were doing.

i was locked in your eyes
until you broke the moment,
laughing —
you’re so easy to ******.
i felt something in me split.

you’re not stupid.
i know you knew
that my heart
this year has been
only beating for you.

until you lifted me up
as our lips brushed,
for the first time in months —
and the night blurred
in the back of a car,
all glass and gold streetlight.

the heat of your laptop
on my thigh,
netflix playing rick and morty —
at first, we watched,
then it faded into background.

i fell asleep
in your clothes,
your scent
settled into my skin
as you held me close.

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?

nothing changes.
the beat in my mind
knocks on
in dull succession,

as i slowly suffocate
beneath the hum
of the melody,
in the unadorned cage
of my own reflection.

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.

i’ve been feeling empty,
a mere vessel.
kept praying for something
to change.
but something shifted
when it came.

thought i’d already
met the ground,
until i learnt
you can sink lower —
disintegrate,
and drown.

you saw the empty glass
just before i left.
the way you came down on me
still rattles in my chest.

you were way too harsh.
your words lodged in me
for years.
because you were
a drinking buddy.
i didn’t need you
to hold a mirror up to me.

“i know by heart,” you said,
“that glass will be followed
by another.
isn’t that right?

so can you promise me
when you get home
you won’t drink?
because tomorrow,
i will know.
you know i will.
and i’ll never trust you again.
if you lie to me.”

i didn’t drink that night.
not because i didn’t want to.
but out of anger.
because you were right.

sometimes, years later,
your voice still follows me.
you’re part of the past,
and it still haunts me.

i could do
with a round of tough love.
another of your harsh truths.
because i keep fighting these battles,
and all i do is lose.

you ask,
how much i drink in a week.
i say, you don’t want to know —
and you hold me
as the truth splinters
through my ribs.

then you walk me
to your car,
drive me home.
make me tell you
about drinking in silence,
in secret, alone.

but you already know.
you needed me to say it.

you want me medicated.
you want me to get help.
speak to someone,
anyone.
you can’t witness anymore
as i’m losing myself.

i don’t want you to see me like this.
i don’t want anyone to.
a part of me still resists,
still says it isn’t true.

but i am an alcoholic.
only at twenty-four.
the worst part is,
i think i’ve known all along —
i just kept thinking
if i stayed quiet,
it might stay small.

i haven’t had therapy in weeks.
he’s been on holiday,
i’ve been working.
too much.

the days stack up like
empty dishes by the sink.
sometimes it’s so bad,
i have to dig my nails
into my own skin
to stop myself
from walking away.

but then i think of you —
how you are the only thing
that gets me through the day.
i could not turn my back.
your name is the rope
i wrap around my wrist,
and stay.

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?

and then it hit me —
you’re the first person
i’ve met
who would carry
all of my parts.
gently.
even the cracked ones.
especially.

i introduced you to them,
at the gig.

he looked at me,
eyes wide,
a little sceptic.

“husband?” he asked.

what.

did my mind trip?
“housemate. housemate!”
that’s what i said.
but maybe my heart
decided to have
its own moment.

your wife laughed —
“i thought you said husband, too.”
and there i was,
blushing through
the awkward ha-ha,
wishing for something
to sink into.

got together before,
thrived during,
and deepened after.

the world had gone quiet,
streets hushed,
time slowed to a simmer.
we measured days in drinking,
and nights in being together.

that summer,
while you worked,
i found a passion
in building a home —
a craft i had overlooked before.

i baked with my heart,
and cooked with my soul.

my mother was stupefied —
i never, not once,
helped her in my life.
even the way i peeled potatoes
was apparently a crime.

but then,
i created specialties,
dishes from all over the world,
setting time aside each day
to warm your heart
with two courses,
and desserts.

that fire still lives.
i’m so **** good
at what i do —
because food is my love language,
and when i cook,
it’s all for you.

sometimes i’m asked
about my siblings.
i don’t mention you.
at all.

in that moment,
i’m already lying —
not naming you
with those still living
because the memory
will always sting raw.

it feels like erasing you.
but you don’t exist.
not in the world
they know.
i don’t speak your name
or what i hold back,
in those unsaid words.

i don’t need their sorrys,
their tilted heads,
want to unwrap
the sudden,
the young,
the different.

i do have siblings.
i have a few.

it’s easier this way.

i could talk about you,
attila.
but you’re stitched
into the past,
like an old photo
that the living
don’t get to touch.

it's easier this way.

to carry your presence,
in the sleeve of my heart,
so you never fade.

i got woken up
before the sun could rise.
furniture scraped the floor
as the moving van arrived.

my father shed tears,
kissing the cats goodbye.
i was only seven
when their divorce
was finalised.

the next time
i was eight,
only six months
wiser than before.
my mother said
it was all a mistake —
we couldn’t live
like that anymore.

there were no cats
to bring back.
belongings were sold.
when we moved again,
we snuck out
during the day
so my father wouldn’t know.
it was better that way.

we lived hidden
in a half-house
under a tree,
as if the branches
could smother
the echoes
of the screams.

my brother returned,
shaping a new family
with a girl.
although a bit crowded,
for a moment,
i swear we were happy.

in between the bags
and the weight of living,
i jumped into
the arms of a boy
who gave me an out.
his smile felt like escape,
but left me empty
and dry.

a decade later,
i found a house —
not a house.
a home.
in a country
i was meant for.

they didn’t speak my tongue,
but accepted my love,
even the way i failed
and learnt.
the love was unconditional,
and asked for nothing
in return.

it took sixteen attempts
to find one i could own.
and now that it’s mine,
i never want to leave.

if i made a move,
it might stir the darkness —
the kind that still breathes.

sometimes.

and i need
to let it sleep.

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.

we hated each other
until we didn’t.
our mutual spite
drifted into respect,
two stubborn selves
forced to intersect.

we took solace
in drinking,
our souls poured
with the wine.
your promise
was irresistible —
so were the signs.

i was nothing
but a mixtape
you played on repeat,
and named me —
claimed me —
as your greatest mistake.

once you stopped the tape,
stripped it to its core,
spilled the ribbon of me
right outside your door.
you forgot my name
quick enough to hurt,
but i still remember
the flames —

and how ferociously
they burned.

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

asking myself to stop
loving him
is like asking someone
to stop breathing.

love shouldn’t land
like a ton of bricks.

no matter how hard
i try to focus
on someone else –
anyone –
i keep reaching
back for him.

my walls
aren’t strong enough
to withhold the blow
and defend me
against this.

i spend too much time
beating myself up.
i drift between careful
and you only live once.

my life is a gallery
of abstract mistakes.
i wouldn’t mind you in it.
you come with a nice frame.

i started typing.
just a simple text:
i hope you’re okay.
but i was
too much of a coward
to hit send.

the things i could tell you—
they’re almost criminal.
but i only find your lips,
soft with ache for me,
in the quiet dark of dreams.
i carry you
like a wound that scabs
but never bleeds.

and if you were here,
really here,
i think i’d take the risk.
let my life fold in half,
see if you’d catch me
as i come apart
under your touch.

but i know you wouldn’t.
so i’ll hold onto
this fantasy for now,
praying that your flickers
eventually burn out.

in between downward dogs,
my phone buzzes —
again.
and again.

for fifteen whole minutes,
i leave you unread.

you’re drunk, smitten,
with someone i know,
someone you spotted
at a gig.

you send a live-feed
of your spiralling heart,
ask what to say,
if the moment does come.

i tell you to try.
say hi for me.
talk about music,
the crowd, the energy,
the way the incandescence,
blurry but kind,
makes them look soft
in that lavender light.

and you do.
of course you do.
you take a leap of faith,
while i sit here
in silence,
finding a hundred ways
to rehearse what my heart would
but my mouth will never say.

he keeps pushing me.
telling me
to take a chance.
have an interview
with his ops,
who would love me,
by the way.

and since i’m leaving,
why not now,
especially,
that him and the company
are definitely my thing.

it’s my decision, he said.

i hate that he’s right.
i hate it so much.
and i hate him
for asking me
what’s the hold-up.

what a joke.

the hold-up.

it’s you.
i’m wasting my energy
thinking about this.

it’s you, holding me back.
it’s the thought of us
being at the same place,
in the same room
for longer
than ten seconds,
holding me back.

it’s my heart,
my mind at last,
every living cell
in my body
holding me back,
fighting fantasies,
thoughts
that carelessly run
through my head
as i play out what happens.
it’s my instinct of fear
holding me back.

i don’t want
near your fire again.
hand myself over
on a silver platter,
and say,
‘do whatever you can.
my very core is
in your hands’.

you should know better
than ask
what’s holding me back.
i’m fighting my feelings
with everything i have.

go, and get yourself burned
like i did,
when you have the chance.

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.

voices emerged from the garden
as i walked past the stairs.
i didn’t know what i was doing —
intruding
on something private,
breaking the atmosphere
of an afternoon meant
for softness, and quiet.

i overheard my neighbour ask
when i’m coming home again.
my mother, oblivious,
said i’d be here for christmas.

she stopped dead
in her tracks
as my voice came out —
hi.
too loud.

no one said a word.
she looked at my father,
about to cry.
our neighbours glanced
at each other,
then rose from their chairs.

a dog, i realised,
was licking my hand.

surprise.

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.

i asked her—
of all people—
if you’d ever said
anything about me.

i knew you wouldn’t.
you don’t hand
your secrets to anyone.

but she said the way
you look at me
is evidence enough.

she questioned
why i haven’t told you.

maybe you’d stay.
maybe you would.

but i could never
make you choose
between your dreams
and your chance with me,
only to watch us
fall through.

i’m sick to death
of crying my eyes out,
pretending i’m happy.

i’m sick of the monotone
cycle of work—
made worse
from never resting,

from working
on holiday,
in another country,
when i should’ve been free.

i’m becoming no one.

i wanted to give you
enough time
to replace me – good luck,
but somehow
i underestimated
how much i had left
in my emotional tank.

three and a half years
was the greatest opportunity.
finally belonging
to a family that cared.

let that mean something.
right?
all due respect.

i miss my independence.
this whole holiday –
the point was
for the two of us
to get away.

instead, it lifted the pink fog,
and all i can see
is the change.

us, us, us.
we, we, we.

there’s no space for my thoughts.
where they used to live,
the quiet room
is now a nursery.

and the shift is deafening.

there’s no more me.
just the polite,
domestic ghost
haunting me.

i don’t know
how to have the talk.
this is the first time
i’m handed something
that aims to last.

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.

you lifted me in a dream,
like it was nothing—
like the years hadn’t passed
like storms
through our bodies.

we spun until dizzy,
grinning like we used to:
in a world filled
with lollipops,
doorway dates,
and curfews.

you never kissed me
the way stories end.
you only loved me
in the narrow space
between your name
and your friend’s.

you told me
i should be with someone good,
someone who could hold
all my stories.
but never said,
someone like you.

you held my heart
when it spilled,
drunk, full of ache,
and my hand on a bench
before life swelled
and whisked us away.

no fallout.
no fight.
just the silence.

you told me
you broke up with her.
congratulations.

i’m still nothing more
than heat under covers,
wearing
the silent regret
of my own shame,

whilst my reflection,
revolted, stares back
at what i became.

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.

i wandered downstairs,
and found you there –
my boss.
wearing
my friend’s sleepwear.

before i could
muster a word,
you asked about him –
my housemate,
with the angelic hair.

i laughed it off,
but you asked again.
serious.

you filled her coffee mug,
disappeared upstairs,
leaving me unable
to get your nonsense
out of my head.

now i’m rewinding the years,
pulling up the time
i’d have jumped
at the thought of this.

it’s not like that.
it's platonic.
except when i forget
what he’s saying,
shoulder brushing mine,
and wonder —
if i leaned in,
would i be allowed...

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.

i hate being a burden.

my friend brings
food to my home.
he worries about me,
waits for me to swallow
like proof i’m still here,
even though i'm so lost,
so alone.

i can feel myself
splitting at the seams,
turning into
something i’m not.
something i fear.

i hate being a burden.

but i don’t know
how to be anything else.

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.

my brother the other day,
as if he didn't know,
asked me my age.

i was puzzled,
but fair –
he’d lead me somewhere.

“i’m twenty-three.”

his reply like a slap:
“aren’t you ashamed?”

for a second,
i wondered
if he knew something
i didn’t.
guilt bloomed in my veins.

then he repeated,
“twenty-three.
and you still haven’t
finished your book.”

ten years on,
he’ll find a parcel
on his doorstep.
with a note, tucked
inside the page:

“i'm sorry
it took so long.
some stories need
a decade in the dark
before they finally
find their shape.”

i didn’t want to,
but i wrote anyway.
cracked open
like a shell,
flooding with memory.

some words
arrive as if they’ve waited
their whole lives
to be read.