8 years of therapy
therapist after therapist
nothing worked
I gained all the skills I needed
at psych wards
I never used the tools given
from the psych wards
but today is the day
therapy is not helpful
for me
but I will write my new beginnings
use the skills
do research
take my meds
and heal
I will do it by myself
because I have learned
that I am the only person
that I can rely on

I wish I could show you,
The sparkle in your eyes.
The same one you're afraid
people won't regard.
as they close their eyes in the rare moments
when you show it just a little
But I wish I could tell you,
it's not because they despise it
but the sparkle in your eyes!?
Its Blindingly Bright

You said you needed distance, to step away,
But the world saw something else.
Our faces disappeared from your feed—
No trace of the smiles we once wore.
The photo on your phone, once us,
Now a blank space.

I told myself it was practical, logical—
But the ache did not listen.
It felt like a declaration, a silent broadcast:
“I am no longer taken.”

And yet, I am still tethered—
Bound to a past you are so quick to untangle.
You said it wasn’t about me,
But the absence screamed louder than words.

Did you think fading from view would ease the weight?
Did you believe I wouldn’t feel it?
But I did. I do.
You erased us in pixels and frames,
While I held on, clutching the empty space.

And still, I wonder—
Was it easier for you that way?

I am the flower growing in between cracks in the sidewalk

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

In a world that celebrates beauty,
money and success,
Brokenness and incredulity
Is too hard, so we suppress.
But for transformative repair;
Vulnerability and acceptance
Breeds healing, restoration, care;
Real beauty and justice.

I’ve traced the hurt,
Held the pieces of our past
Sharp against my skin,
Wondering if love was ever enough
To survive the shattering.

And still—
Through the silence,
The ache,
The growth we endured apart…

I choose you.

Not the version from before,
But the one who’s learning,
Who’s trying,
Who’s meeting me again
In the middle
Of forgiveness and fire.

I choose the risk
Of starting again,
Of love rebuilt
Brick by trembling brick.

Because despite everything—
You are still the home
My heart returns to
When the storm clears.

And this time,
We will build it stronger.

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.

Don’t knock.
Just rattle the door like the wind did
that night I sat in the bathtub
eating ice with a steak knife.
Bring your worst self—I’ll know what to do.

I’ve buried better men under worse moons.
Named stars after bruises and made constellations
out of what never touched me.
Still called it love.
Still called it mine.

I painted my ribcage lavender
to trick the vultures.
Grew silk in my throat
just to scream prettier.

There is no map.
Only muscle memory and perfume
that smells like the lie you almost told.
The one you rehearsed
but lost the spine
to say aloud.

I practiced not loving you
like it was piano.
Every night, slower.
Quieter.
Wrong keys, on purpose.

So if you must come,
come wrong.
Come ruinous and unready.
Come like someone who forgot the story
but wants to hear it again.

I won’t read it to you.
But I left the pen uncapped.
Go ahead. Ruin the rest.