I unspool the silence,
shed the smallness
in my head.

I take it all in,
let my voice swell—
and no longer ask
permission to exit the room.

You're not afraid of death
Cause you would have started living
If I'm honest instead, as far as I'm aware
You're scared of being scared
And that's a living death
Noble in nothing, tormenting in all,
Creating lamentations and wants of something more
But is that a way to actually
Become who you wanna be?
Or is it maybe just a way
For discomfort to be delayed?
How long still?
Instead what if,
And hear me out
You stopped trying to love without
Fear of life, and instead said
“I am afraid, but not ashamed”
And went and did it anyway,
Whatever you felt called to do
I do not know all about you
But to me it sounds like something
That could be more promising
That could bring some peace in life
As the tension that is born
From creation is not torn
But instead nurtured and grown
So it won't scream, but adorn
Your inner temple with petals, not glass
And then at a point, alas,
It's silent inside,
You don't need to hide
Anymore.
_M.

I accomplished what I want.
I overcome the voices in my head.
And the one who’s supposed to be proud is the one who holds me back.

One mountain climbed.  
One voice that made a change.
But that courage and voice couldn’t cause someone else pain.

Told that I can’t handle it, but what does she know. I do her job and my own.

To this day I still haven’t spoke, but maybe once I’m eighteen.

The walls tremble before the doors do,  
before his voice splits the air like a storm,  
before Mom folds herself into silence,  
before my brother pulls me into the closet,  
his hand firm over my mouth,  
as if my breath could betray us.  
Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.”  
But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries—  
and wonder if children like me  
ever learn how to sleep.  

I stay because I love them,  
because they need shelter, food, warmth—  
because he wasn’t always this way.  
Because I don’t know how to leave  
with nothing but two small hands gripping mine.  
It’s not always bad. Not always.  
And they need their father.  
Don’t they?  

She won’t leave. She can’t.  
There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline—  
not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him.  
A good man. A working man. A provider.
So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell—  
but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes.  
She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay.  
Because that’s what mothers do.  

You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you?  
Men get angry. Women overreact.  
He’s stressed; she should be more patient.  
He works hard; isn’t that enough?  
At least he’s here. At least we have a roof.  
At least the kids have a father.  
At least.

For the kids, she stayed.  
For the kids, I watched and learned:  
that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you;  
that family is loyalty even when it bleeds;  
that silence is safety even when it suffocates you.  

For the kids, I found someone just like him.  
For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm.  
For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them—  
but we were already broken in their image.  

For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long.  
For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe:    
“It’s different this time.”    
“It’s not so bad.”
“We’re doing it for them.”  

Love does not slam doors off their hinges.  
Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves.  
Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore.  

Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion—  
or sons to wield anger as power over others.

Love is open arms and steady hands;  
it is words that heal instead of wound.  
Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears.

Love is leaving when staying means breaking—  
it is showing your children that love should never be feared.

Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength.  
Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear.

Love is a child who never has to wonder:  
“Is this normal?”

Full moon, at night.
The water shimmers in its light.
“Will you jump with me, naked?”
I ask him in the cold wind shaking,
Standing on the edge of the unknown,
Like a lion that has fully grown.
As he hesitates fearfully,
I dive into freedom fiercely.
“I must do it”, he says, following my lead,
Before surrendering to the deep.

Durf te vliegen,
Durf te vallen,
Durf te vechten,
Durf te dromen.

Soms kan vallen zijn als vliegen,
Is vechten winnen en verliezen tegelijk,
Dagen met kleur en dagen in grijs,
Een leven vol uitersten,
Laat angst geen grenzen stellen,
Droom, doe en leef.

I return a hero,
but the victory
is buried in my skin—
cold sweat,
thick as blood,
as a grave.

3:47 AM,
The door creaks open,
the old hinges groaning—
boots pounding closer,
each step like a drumbeat,
bringing a cold shiver
that claws down my spine.

Then—
silence.

A scream cuts the night,
the daughter,
the mother,
they want me—
drag me back
to that blood-soaked hell,
where nothing survives,
where life is torn apart.

Warplanes split the sky,
tanks rumble in my chest—
the taste of rust,
the heat of gunfire,
the smell of flesh burning,
of metal tearing through bone.

l open my eyes,
and I'm surrounded—
the bodies of my brothers,
their faces smashed into the earth,
eyes wide,
mouths frozen in screams.
The stench is choking,
the blood thick,
pooling like a dark sea around us.

The Nazis—
they don't stop—
shooting the fallen
to make sure no one rises.
I feel the shot in my gut,
but I'm still here—
I wait my turn.

I close my eyes.

And then—
l open them.
Still here.
4:01 AM.
I survived.
Barely.