my wounds
are ocean-deep.
caution advised.
even seasoned souls,
spotless and sure,
could easily drown.

sometimes i wake
from a fever-dream
spent with a mystery being –
evaporating too quickly
to savour
leftover feelings,
and hidden benefits
of a midnight affair
with someone
that doesn't exist.

when the day
is half gone,
i'm still lovesick,
incapable of
stopping my mind
from hoping
there’s a button somewhere
to hit re-wind.

I'm an efficient mover
My first time was at seven
My mother woke me up
Before the sun could rise
Hush, "csitt", quick
The moving van arrived.
The furniture, a few,
Landed in the back,
My father crying softly,
Kissed goodbye to the cats.
My friends, neighbours,
And all we knew
Slept, as though nothing happened.

The next time I was eight,
Not much wiser than before,
My mother said she'd made a mistake,
She couldn't care for us no more.
This time there was no van,
Belongings were sold
There was only my mother
My cat
And I.
My brother left behind.
And also, the cat.
I lost so much more than it seemed
That I didn't know back then.

The third time I was twelve,
With my father stuck at work
We snuck out during the day.
I didn't change schools,
It was the same town,
A street away.
Hidden, under a tree
Hoping to never hear the fight.
My brother returned,
A girl followed,
That was our new family.
Although crowded in the same room,
For a moment,
I swear,
We were happy.

The fourth time I was fourteen,
Back into the nest we flew
Teachers said
Education is the future.
So to help with school,
We listened to the pressure
Of child services,
"A family that is together is a bigger help
Than anything else."
Except, what are you, ******* blind.

The fifth time I was fifteen,
I was put in an institution
Against my will.
It was for the best.
"Stop being selfish,
We need to save money."
What a burden, a child,
Its currency expenses.
At this one time I returned
For the weekend
My mother was gone,
She had left.

My sixth time was at eighteen,
Jumped into the arms of a boy
Who gave me an out.
A learning curve, a lesson,
One of the great mistakes of life.

My seventh time at nineteen.
Back into the house,
Helping my father get over
His drunken accidents
Tending to his scars
Trying to earn the great education
Everybody was preaching about.
It wasn't until later
My mental health came crashing.
It was time to skip
Earn some cash
See what I could make of myself.

That was my eight, twenty
Such a grown-up number,
Lived with boys,
Then older boys,
And whilst they cared for me,
I cared less for myself.
The era of failing had begun.
It took me less than six
Trying to scrape a life together
With someone I called friend
Only realising I wasn't strong enough,
So I ran.

My ninth, back into the house
My mother was back as well
Surprised her when I showed up
With a suitcase and backpack.
But in they took me
Left me to do my thing,
Let me wallow in self pity.
Ignored the demons that slept
In my bed.
They feasted on my dreams
And got stronger by the day
I carried them with me
Wherever I went.

My tenth, at twenty-two
The things I did for enough to escape
This great country of mine,
The ****** abuse, the hurtful words,
Boys will be boys,
You're too sensitive, said work.
Thank god for Tumblr.
For online friends, for all those chats
Headcanons and theories
That gave me confidence
To arrive in a country
That didn't speak my language
Despite me saying, 'sorry, what'
For the hundredth time
My love happened right on the spot
For theirs seemed unconditional.

My eleventh happened at twenty-three,
Different people formed a bond,
Late night talks, lectures, fun,
I was meant for this house.
Incredible
How much happens in a few years
For all that is worth,
I failed and grew at the same time.

My twelfth, at twenty-seven,
Bittersweet and new,
With a boy I loved and thought,
Could help me endure.
A short-lived memory
In the distance, that is.
A quick escape,
A step
Towards adult life.

My thirteenth, still at twenty-seven,
What I'm living now,
Exploring a new area,
With its medieval town.
The next season of
Something Beautiful
With the added spice of a cat.
I'm hoping not to leave.
I'm hoping not to move.
Not to make a move.
If I do, I might stir the darkness.
I shall let it sleep for now.

help me smother
these chaotic sparks
you’ve fed, fuelled
and let grow
whilst gasping for air,
my bleeding heart
submits quietly
to your soul.

Sometimes I’m asked if I have siblings.
And I don’t mention you at all.
Inadvertently, I always tell a lie.
I don’t mention you with those still living,
because the hole you’ve left feels sore,
And I know I’m erasing you from life.

But you don’t exist.
I don’t speak your name,
who you are to me.
I don’t need their sorry, so pathetic.
What am I to say?
“I’m OK. You don’t need to worry.”

I don’t need their questions,
the “oh, no”s, “what happened?”
the regret that they had asked.
I don’t need a reminder of how different
it’s been since you’ve left
all so sudden, and so young.

You know you don’t belong here.
you’re a mismatched memory
amongst the living.
Like a puzzle piece
of an awkward family,
and now the piece is missing.

And now I speak ill of you.
And it makes me feel uneasy,
causing my head spin.
Because I do have siblings, I have a few.
And I don’t know them completely.
And you, Attila, I never will.

i watched a grainy film once,
through blurs of a stolen light,
words dropped like crumbs.
i picked them all up,
kept them safe
tucked away in my mind,
until i had the puzzle pieces
to give them back their shape.

years later, i etched
a number on my hand.
not for him,
but for the girl,
who mimicked the words
before knowing what they meant.

now i wear his language
like a second skin,
slightly flushed
from the heartbeat beneath —
pulsing with all
once chased,
and incomplete.

i didn’t know it then,
how far that ship would sail —
how it would anchor me,
then leave behind a trail
to places only dreamed,
with a way back for when i was ready.
i didn’t know it then,
how it would lead me
to chart entire lives
into maps of unfolding,
guided by a compass of poetry —
all of it
once borrowed
from a screen.

it still hurts.
your memory’s radioactive.
it’s no use thinking about
how much i lost
as the script of my life kept rolling.

you caught me as i fell,
i was searching for a way out,
and found you instead.
but reaching for you
only pulled me deeper down.

looking back is hard.
toxic dust i breathed in,
a chemical romance
that burned through my lungs,
your atmosphere seeping into everything.

maybe fate turned kinder
the moment i left.
what i might have become
is folded quiet,
neatly kept.

but it still stings.
not the loss — the time i can’t reclaim.
you weren’t a lesson.
you were a delay.

so take the version of me
you once believed.
i won’t ask fate for mercy,
nor beg time to rewind.
i’m done with your ghosts
that never tried.

dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
if i had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
i would’ve tried to explain who i was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay —
structured, unsure, incomplete.

but you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
i hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

did you get some of the things
i’ve spent years aching for?
answers to the never-ending whys —
why i keep repeating patterns,
why i stay when i should leave,
why i doubt what’s already mine?
did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
and love —
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

i don’t expect letters,
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please —
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when i could’ve turned away.

i’m looking forward to meeting you.
not for answers —
but just to see who survived.
if you’re still standing,
then maybe so am i.

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.

i tidied the corners,
stories simmered in the chilli,
scattered petals on the grass —
rose-red, next to a single lily.

i’d chosen the music with care,
but laughter co-wrote the score,
each chorus pulling us closer
to something warmer than before.

we bathed in rain, clouds, and sun,
each one carrying a moment,
where secrets come undone,
and quiet truths are spoken.

the fairy lights lit up,
as the world flipped slowly —
a circle of soft goodbyes
turning intimate into holy.

as the solstice faded,
and it struck twelve once more,
a day like this feels sacred,
as the season shifts the shore.

this night won't conclude us,
though the dusk will surely dim.
we are only at the beginning,
on the edge where stories swim.

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.

over the snowy mountain peaks
a star is gliding through space
as i’m strolling, embracing the breeze
on saint anne’s frozen lake.

icicles have crept up on the trees,
all the living have run away.
sorrow lingers in the silent eve,
dimming prayers at winter’s gate.

the cold flurry of air penetrates the bone,
reeds wince with the chill.
a flock of birds pass by like ghosts,
their shapes trembling in fear.

oscillating wings carve the way.
as they fade away in the sky,
a new thought is born i can’t shake:
this is my home. i’ve arrived.

you are
a burden
i carry
in every breath —
a firestorm
destroying all
ahead.

you are
a monster
waiting for me
to sleep —
an anchor
knotted at my neck,
pulling me
to the deep.

you are
an echo
of my voice
caught in a fight —
the lurking dark
that smothers
all the light.

you are
a void
consuming
the best self i had,
leaving nothing
but the throbbing
in my chest.

and yet,
you are
the question
i can’t answer:
why do i still hold you dear?
that remains a mystery —
even to me.

there’s a reason
i haven’t kept
my photos of her
within reach.
yet, i watch myself
get torn apart
on the pixelated screen
of dreams long lost.

i’m on my knees
begging my brain
to stop doing this to me.

she's not coming back.

love should know better,
than to dress itself in cruelty.

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.

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 tear myself open
like a letter
never meant to be read,
until my hands tremble
and each line
bleeds into the next.

i’m the sum of everything
i swore i’d never be —
the cut, the salt,
the silent weight
of an empty glass.

the shell i’m left with
isn’t worth taking up space.
i became my own enemy,
when i ran out of people to blame.