Life, is a mystery,
and I lost you, between its pages.
A second act tragedy
in which you vanished,
from the spotlight.
No fanfare, no string quartet,
swelling,
to an outro
just the cruel echo,
of laughter
from the dividing line
and the blood,
gushing
between my thighs.
It was not my war ...
but mass graves
don't ask permission,
to house casualties.
I didn't need to hate,
to be hated.
You paid the price,
wholesale
for a debt, you didn't owe.
...Oh, little one.
You went away,
so quickly
but I was the empty bassinet
that swaddled your ghost,
in its trembling arms
and I held you extra tight,
as I rocked, to sleep,
the memory,
of you.
You were a quiet tenant,
while I had you
in a one-bedroom,
studio apartment.
...But I was a bombed-out house,
when you left me.
Nothing left of me,
at all
but the burning shell.
Now I'm splintered rails
and flailing walls
a structure,
barely standing
...and a door,
that's too scared,
to open.
...But there's a "me",
in the blueprints
that I haven't learnt, to rebuild, yet.
I'm still stacking stones.
The ones, that I haven't thrown.
Layers...
slowly rising,
in a thickly, wired cake.
Brick, against mortar
in a re(tro)active
warzone.
Having lived half a life,
in its half-life
I don't know,
if I can still seed, a garden,
in these radioactive grounds.
But I know, I can try.
And someday,
I hope--
even if it's only me,
that has grown,
like a wild ****
that I can show you, something...
that would make you really proud,
of me.
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 9:23 AM UTC
Life, is a mystery,
and I lost you, between its pages.
A second act tragedy
in which you vanished,
from the spotlight.
No fanfare, no string quartet,
swelling,
to an outro
just the cruel echo,
of laughter
from the dividing line
and the blood,
gushing
between my thighs.
It was not my war ...
but mass graves
don't ask permission,
to house casualties.
I didn't need to hate,
to be hated.
You paid the price,
wholesale
for a debt, you didn't owe.
...Oh, little one.
You went away,
so quickly
but I was the empty bassinet
that swaddled your ghost,
in its trembling arms
and I held you extra tight,
as I rocked, to sleep,
the memory,
of you.
You were a quiet tenant,
while I had you
in a one-bedroom,
studio apartment.
...But I was a bombed-out house,
when you left me.
Nothing left of me,
at all
but the burning shell.
Now I'm splintered rails
and flailing walls
a structure,
barely standing
...and a door,
that's too scared,
to open.
...But there's a "me",
in the blueprints
that I haven't learnt, to rebuild, yet.
I'm still stacking stones.
The ones, that I haven't thrown.
Layers...
slowly rising,
in a thickly, wired cake.
Brick, against mortar
in a re(tro)active
warzone.
Having lived half a life,
in its half-life
I don't know,
if I can still seed, a garden,
in these radioactive grounds.
But I know, I can try.
And someday,
I hope--
even if it's only me,
that has grown,
like a wild ****
that I can show you, something...
that would make you really proud,
of me.
I am well aware that this is going to be weaponized, and used against me, by the onsite stalker who enjoys hurting children, and has threatened to **** me, and mine.
But this isn't for him, this isn't for anybody, but her, and she will forever be safe, wherever she is. 🌹 Long, long gone, but never forgotten.
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