I've thought a lot about it
enough time to pass
the melodramatic fits of passion
I house regularly in this skin of mine

That maybe the end of the world isn't at my door step
and that maybe I can live without your mahonany eyes, yet
I feel a yearnful pull to the softly spoken words
you renounce

Maybe it really wasn't meant to be
And I wasn't meant to be devinely yours
your one and only love for all of my life
I was only 14 when I loved you and
I coersed my own mind to belive that I would only have one love
like that in my life

This realization has felt like
Maybe I have grown
Maybe my girlish teenage mind has began to see reality
Like Messieurs les enfants
born yesterday but grown the next
overnight I lost the child version of myself
to the evermoving trail of time

or maybe I can just feel my prefrontal cortex developing

they say that if a tree falls in the forest
with nobody around to hear it
then does it really make a sound

the tree's pain went unnoticed
due to the lack of hearing ears
the pain was still there
even though no one could hear it

just because the tree fell
and no one heard the fall
doesn't mean it didn't happen
it doesn't erase the pain

the tree uprighted itself
and grew back taller than before
it did it by itself
because no one listened for the pain
so no one could help it overcome it
except itself

On a cold November evening, she met herself
Her reflection was shivering; confident,
Her lips cold; her smile warm
On a cold November evening, she saw herself

Her eyes sparkled with humor in time with the gentle dance of the snow,
Each snowflake a waltz reflecting her mood
And she asked herself, how did you get here, me?
How did you escape your cage?

And she answered, oh darling, I never did.
The cage simply outgrew me, and the iron bars scraped my arms
I hurt myself no longer, but I still hurt
And yet it was all worth it, to see that look in your eyes

On a cold November evening, she walked away
Those iron bars so far from her hopeful face -
A cage so big she didn’t understand how she could ever leave
And yet the phantom pain on her arms was a promise
That this wasn’t forever.

I need truth & light,
not lies & fights.
Emotional security,
not shame &  anxiety.
I need love that’s true.
Sometimes ‘Hello Me’
is pronounced ‘Goodbye You.’

Not every promise is golden.
Sometimes, vows need to be broken.
Leaving was brave,
given how you behaved.
Not every ending is unhappy.
Sometimes ‘Goodbye You’
means ‘Hello Me.’

I’d rather be single
than a married martyr.
I’d rather laugh & mingle
than keep on trying harder.
I need something new.
Sometimes ‘Hello Me’
is pronounced ‘Goodbye You.’

I choose my mental health
over double-income wealth
Wellness over weakness,
happiness over secrets,
freedom over familiarity.
Sometimes ‘Goodbye You’
means ‘Hello Me.’

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.

It’s a miracle that I’m still around
After I lost my skin
And walked all over Tehran’s streets,
Absorbing all the noise and pollution
Directly into every little muscle and bone.

It’s a miracle that I still love—
Even if very selectively,
And surgically cautious.
Even if from a distance,
From my carefully curated living space
Where only music, art, and fashion are allowed,
With no pre-screening and constant monitoring for letdown and betrayal.

It’s a miracle that I still smile—
Even though, if you look closely
At the corner of my mouth,
You would notice a trace of unbreakable sadness.
That’s why, when I feel too deep,
I look away.

There was a time, when I was younger,
When I loved so freely,
So carelessly,
So curiously—
But I got pushed and pulled,
Hurt and burnt
Beyond the point of my breaking.

You cannot see it,
But my soul carries all those wounds
And burn marks on her skin.
And she carries them
Like a badge of honor.

Because it’s a miracle that I still breathe.
And it’s a miracle
That I kept my dreams.

Sliding of beads
So therapeutic
To see how this became that
What makes up the whole
                           Touch each fraction

No need for equation of form
To find value of one emotion
                               Against a known
Or
Tangents
Or
Ometries
When the only calculus of interest
                                    Is sum of self

Someone used to say
That spring begins and ends
Like a transient midday breeze

When the colour of the tulip fades
To an old pale yellow
You, grown out of your sorrow
Will stand ahead of the horizon
Ready to live, ready to breathe

i don’t need to glow up.
i need to grow in.
deeper roots,
kinder thoughts,
a life that feels like mine.

- M

Isn’t It Nice to Have a Mother?
I write this poem to share a thought—

A reminder, perhaps, to offer extra kindness today.
Because not all mothers gave hugs,

Or left kisses along the way.

I had a mother who was my first bully—

The first to teach me to chase a love.

That was never mine to hold.

She taught me that love had to be earned,

That I needed to prove I was worthy of it.


The cost?

Low self-esteem, people-pleasing,

And a hunger for validation
In exchange for love she rarely chose to give.

She resented in me the traits she had been taught to hate in herself—


And now I see them,

 Reflected in my own insecurities,

In the body I’ve grown into,

In the weight I carry,
both seen and unseen.

Not all mothers are kind.

Not all are gentle.
Some are neglectful.

Some are cruel, 
In more ways than one.

So if I seem quiet today—
If I hold back on a day meant for celebration—

Please understand:
 It reminds me of the mother I did not have.

And of the mother I hope one day to become.