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 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.

you said
it would work out.

it didn’t.

i hate
that i knew
i’d be right.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

i told my friend,
it wasn’t like that.
we said — agreed —
this still wasn’t a date.

then you sat down
with a coffee,
making me forget
every careful phrase,
every non-confession
i’d whispered to my mind.

we wandered the city
until sundown,
as if we didn’t know
every corner of it.
and when the night
started to settle,
i offered you an out —
you had plans.
you just smiled,
waving them away.

neither of us knew
what we then began.

because i told my friend
it wasn’t like that.
but now i’m not sure
what i was trying to defend.

i went back at twenty-three,
to the school that survived me.
the rebel, the headache,
the girl who wouldn’t listen —
and thought of this building
as being trapped in a cage.

it felt like coming home.
my teacher grinning wide,
filling me with warmth,
hugging me from the side
during the memorial,
as if the teenagers on stage
weren’t reciting poems
about the war.

he kept leaning in,
whispering jokes
of old times.
shushing didn’t work –
i was secretly glowing
in their unexpected pride.

they called me the proof.
an example, that
the troubled can bloom.
but all i could think
was how they loved me
through my worst,
and still do.

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.

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.

(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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

velvet-soft touch,
a rainbow sunrise,
naïve smiles
reflected in your eyes.

caribbean lightning,
words written in sand,
goosebumps rising
up my arm, down my hands.

tropical jungle,
a caressing breeze,
sun-kissed freckles
spilling over me.

sweat-drenched longing,
a turquoise bay,
your quiet glance
burning like fate.

scorching sunlight,
hunger in flames,
a mariachi chorus
dancing 'round the blaze.

spanish murmurs —
'vamos al bar',
your family waits
with mezcal in a jar.

bare feet wandering,
a crimson sky,
the sea kisses shells
the tide leaves behind.

seductive darkness,
a star-scattered dome,
the high-risen moon
spins legends of home.

a gentle touch,
chestnut-brown eyes,
beneath the palms,
desire comes alive.

laughing gulls,
a tide that won’t part —
and in this sand
i bury my heart.

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.

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.

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.

our first photo was taken
sometime in nineteen ninety-three.
two toddlers in nappies,
neighbours, before we had a word
for what we’d grow to be.

inseparable.

weekend mornings started
at six a.m. beneath blankets.
eyes heavy, pyjamas warm
with your brothers half-asleep,
watching cartoons in the dark –
argai, the lion prince
and some other world
that promised we’d never grow up.

half a life was spent
with football, martial arts,
scavenging, and video games.
but a universe opened between us
when you moved away –
only a few streets down,
where the brink of manhood
said, no girls allowed –
unless.

so i went on
carrying your absence.

years later, our parents
arranged a movie afternoon.
it was a hundred minutes of silence
and small flickers of a conversation
that mirrored who we used to be.
i thought, maybe.
i thought, still.

but the closure i sought
was a door shut in my face.
as if fifteen years
of childhood were a secret shame.

it still hurts
to dream you colder
than you already were,
and carry a reminder
that you don’t have a say
in when and how things end.

my cat is crying,
crying still, and always loud.
his mouth is grief incarnate.
what name could hold you,
you feathered fury,
you opera of complaint.

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.

we met in a bar —
by accident —
i was with a friend.
we matched on tinder
a while ago.
yet, word by word,
you quoted my bio
back to me.
as if you didn’t care.
so casually.

we talked bad dates,
cats, the types we were into,
living sitch in oxford,
housemate gossip,
then silently judged some people.

my friend left, eventually.
we decided to head home.
you were parked at the station,
and i lived off botley road.

you didn’t mind the company.
i didn’t know you.
but i knew of you.
barely.
a friend of a friend.

then i found myself accepting
the lift you offered.

we were almost by my house
when you asked about my plans.

maybe i’d finish
a half-drunk bottle, i said,
with nothing else in mind.

you glanced over,
said you had one at home
you were dying to open.
extremely cheap.
probably vile.
saved for special occasions,
and improvised nights.

the spark was effortless.
as we got to my driveway,
you turned us around.

the ridiculous treasure
you had saved
was worse than we feared,
yet we drank it
until we forgot the taste.

the selfies you made us take
were the silliest kind:
posing with fake glasses,
bandanas,
and that cursed, stick-on moustache.

yours (bandana, not moustache),
wrapped around my neck,
pulled me close.
then you kissed me.

it caught me off guard —
the difference.
you didn’t need me to stay.
i didn’t hear you beg.
with the bottle between us,
we settled in your bed,
discussed programming,
reflection,
the act of meditation —
such an unexpected night to have.

as you drove me home,
you put cheesy pop songs on,
belting out taylor swift.
i noticed the comic strips
glued on the interior —
it was harley quinn.

i still remember all of it.

mostly the goodbye kiss
you carefully asked for
as i opened the door.
and the way our lips brushed
was almost like a dream,
because it was the first time
a kiss,
exchanged with a stranger,
didn’t feel cheap.

we weren’t really strangers
by the end of the night.

(at least not as much
as we currently are.)

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.

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?

a ring of embers—
with my heart
gently dancing around it.
my face is flushed,
damp with tears,
as if they’ve started
boiling in the mist.
i miss you—
but you know that
already.

in my mind,
i’m still running
through the churchyard,
over stone paths,
stepping on yellowed leaves
that gave up weeks ago.
inside me:
homesickness, awe,
anger, grief—
a hundred hands,
all pulling.

you’re a morsel of bread,
bird-snatched, half-left—
carried home in my satchel,
like a labourer
at the day’s end.
you are what you say you are.
and more.
a frame around my soul
i can’t keep building.

i cannot call you mine.
i have a homeland.
you gave the exile shelter—
but she, the other,
birthed me, shields me,
and one day
will cover me with earth.
i cannot betray her.

for what you made
and left behind,
i owe you still.
i’ll bury your legacy
like treasure
in the quietest parts.
it’s mine to guard.

and maybe one day,
when time has vanished,
i can return to you—
shed a tear for us
on a rainy evening,
wipe you clean
like an old photograph,
and place you gently
back into
a quiet corner
of the past.

i stood before the mirror,
pale as a powdered lie,
with strands the colour of fallen empires
and dignity rubbed dry.

the bleach had no mercy,
the dye had no aim —
i emerged from the wreckage
with only myself to blame.

my scalp, a battlefield,
my pride, a powdered wig.
i whispered threats to heaven
with a plastic comb so big.

the townsfolk fled in silence,
the moon refused to rise,
and even my reflection
looked away from my disguise.

somewhere between brass and madness,
i found a kind of grace —
the lord of bad decisions,
with toner on my face.

so let the ships keep sinking,
let the storm winds howl and hiss —
i’m lord cutler beckett, darling,
and i was born for this.

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.