i always thought,
the darkness fed on me.
hunted me, like prey.
made me weaker,
made me lose control.

i realise now —
darkness did nothing.
i did.

i offered myself up
on a plate,
walking paths
i'd already worn thin.
it’s all my fault.
it’s all on me.

what a freakish thing —
blaming my wrongdoings
on him.

if anything,
darkness is a mate
i owe an apology to.

i didn’t mean to bad-mouth you,
when you’re the only one
carrying me
on your back,
when i get deep,
dark blue.

look what you’ve left on me —
a bouquet of stitches,
still-healing scars,
fine lines i can’t conceal
etched across my heart.

and what of your voice
haunting me?
i hope to god it disappears,
and someday,
i won’t even remember
that all of this was ever real.

(a tribute to C.S. Pacat)

on a bed
of white flowers,
etched on my wrist,
i wear it as a vow,
above the place
my pulse
tenderly blooms,
forgetting to lie.

her soft handwriting
is a reminder of a journey
i had once taken
between the lines,
forgiveness forming,
from lashes to petals,
on bruised pages.

i carry her with me,
their story, her essence,
kingdoms folding into skin,
her words marking
not only a change,
but a becoming —
the slow-burn
of identity
i can finally place.

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.

the melody can be heard again.
i know the notes by heart.
i try to rip them from memory —
but i can’t.

the rhythm’s different,
but the tune’s the same.

like a possessed demon
it chases me underground,

and yet i sing.
sing along to it
the entire time.

i said your name last night,
to no one — just my shadow on the wall,
softly, a suggestion of a whisper,
pretending it didn’t hurt at all.

i carry you like bruises,
and although i swore i wouldn’t beg,
here i am, on my knees,
inside every text that i don’t send.

it’s not the act i fear,
but the breath before the yes —
as our worlds begin to unravel
like silk, shredded by violence.

if i break, please, break with me.
let’s fall apart together now.
let’s cry, as we burn to pieces.
i expect you to break me right.

is it too late
to tell you how i feel?
honey, don’t answer.
i couldn’t bear to hear
all the things you’d have to say.

so keep those lips sealed,
and let me silently pray
that one day these scars heal,
and fade into nothingness,
along with your name.

beneath the frog’s soft belly
i found you —
not grand, not loud,
but cracked open
like a peach too ripe with truth.

the city spun on,
drunk on ruin bars and ghosts,
but we stayed low,
where quiet grows —
thick like moss —
and hearts speak
without permission.

i didn’t say it back:
i love you.
as though feeling was a crime.
but i regret it now.
baby, i’d serve
a thousand sentences
for something so divine.

your heart
didn’t pour —
it flooded.
and now mine —
is finally open,
mouth full of your name.

i’ll let the fog burn
bright above us,
and we’ll watch
from our underworld
of whispering soil —
wine-warm,
thinly worn,
relentlessly soft.

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.

‘take off your clothes,’ he said.
i glared — long enough to matter.
he peeled off his cardigan,
set it on the desk.
‘wear mine.’

another glare.
maybe half a smile.
‘i know how much you love it.’

then he walked away,
knowing my heart melted —
not from the warmth
of his sleeves
wrapped around me,
but from the fact
that he noticed i did.

later, when the rainy days passed,
i looked for my scarf.
i was sure i left it in the office.
‘you did,’ he said.

‘so where is it?’
‘i took it home.’
his grin lit the air between us.

‘what can i say?’
hands over his heart.
‘i needed something
to warm me up.’

boy meets girl.
like rose petals
brushing her cheek,
he whispers a warning:
don't get too close.
i’m not here forever.

as if it’s a choice.

girl says,
i really like you.
face like the sun,
trembling, she offers
a half-open heart.

he says,
i love you too,
like an unexpected hug
before the goodbye.
then he leaves —
just like he promised.
but he forgets
a part of himself
is now hers to keep.

i board the eurostar,
knots in my stomach,
anxiety clinging like static.
i may get charged
for the emotional weight
my heart and i packed
in my luggage.

then a guy across the aisle
mistakes me for a being
you can turn to for guidance.
his travelling companion,
anxiety, also had a reserved seat,
and soon, the four of us share
one nervous heartbeat
in carriage sixteen.

human panic in motion,
he’s vibrating with nerves,
scents of worry
seeping through his shirt.
but he calms me,
and eventually we both
drift into sleep.

we’re halfway there,
when we wake,
and rapid fires emerge
in-between the yawning.
discussing the speed,
the delay, the weather.
now, i don’t mind he found me.
there’s comfort in knowing
we can be scared together.

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 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...

i saw a stranger sing one night.
the memory still lingers
years after the high.
mute swimmer,
a wordsmith from berlin,
brought silence and fire.

he wrote a song
about self-worth and doubt —
the kind we all wrestle,
then bury in our minds.

he’d hear his voice
softly pulsing
with each heartbeat.
instead of leaning
into the dread —
you’ll never make it
you’re worthless —
he’d counter-attack,
asking us
to push them back.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

we’d chant until
it wasn’t about him,
but about us.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.


why don’t you

shut

the ****

up.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

my brain doesn’t understand
that we have no right to exist.
and still, it conjures her —
lips burning from the kiss
where I forget
where I end
and she begins.

echo island
invites me to dine on its shore.
the wild orchid, hidden and torn,
begs me to linger,
weaves gold in my hair —
and claims me,
its trophy,
unaware.

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.

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

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 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 was always the kind
with a toothbrush to spare
reserved for only you,
not knowing who you'd be.

a friend, perhaps, in need
of a soft bed and duvet,
a midnight love, leaving
just as sudden as it came.

maybe i was always
hoping that my sanctuary
would be enough,
and maybe, just maybe,
you'd peel the old love away,
like paint from a windowsill—

but you never stayed.

on the sun-soaked terrace,
with the stem
cold against my fingers,
I raise my glass to your laughter
and the wind tousling my hair.
we are gleaming golden,
fermenting a quiet kind
of sweetness.

your presence
slips past my guard,
softening the stains
of our past,
like sunlight
through old glass,
faintly blooming still.

you’re a risk to me,
to my sanity.
asking me to walk
barefoot through hell —
not to escape it,
but to understand.

i’ll happily drink to the fire,
to this dauntless
absurdity
building a shrine
in shades of dangerous red,
stirring the fallen ashes
our burnt-out flickers
once left.

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 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 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.

god, i wish
we could revert time
to the moment
before i hurt you,
to the moment
before my bones knew
what it felt like
to carry the weight
of a heart cracked open.

but i need to
remind myself
why i pulled away,
and why i’ll never
beg you back
into my life,
into the wreckage
i barely escaped.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the peasant girl
who once brought water
from the well
in cracked hands
has returned.
she didn’t mean to
leave her home behind —
it was just to escape
the silence between
what she needed
and would be never given.
she left with nothing
but a hunger for life,
so she started living,
and never apologised.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 dreamt about us —
a forbidden touch,
where hands met,
souls intertwined,
shirts unbuttoned,
drunk on wine.

i dreamt of the slowest burn —
sparks from your lips
merging with fuel from mine
tilting my entire world
upside down.

‘did you sleep well?’ you ask,
stirring your morning coffee.
i smile, face flushed with heat.
‘i had such an angelic dream.’

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.

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.

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.