sometimes i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
once a washcloth has been greasy and worn out,
someone who appreciates its worth takes it out from the workshop,
rubs it clean
removes all the grime, the dirt, the grease, the impurity
soaks it in a tub full of soap and warm water
then laid out to enjoy the breeze
and embrace the warmth of the sun
to start fresh, to start anew, to feel brand new again.
a clean slate for the washcloth; a repetitive process until it has been worn out on its last string.

i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
to be able to wring out all the scars, the wounds, the wickedness
and start anew every time.

but i guess that's what makes us human.
all the battle scars will remain as a lesson,
all the wickedness situated upon us will always convey a message,
and all the pain will serve its reminder that there is a brighter tomorrow.

but sometimes,
i can't help but wonder
what it's like to be a washcloth.

she bloomed
in the hush of night
where the sun dared not reach
and the wind whispered secrets
no red petal could keep.

they called her strange
a shadow among flame—
but she stood, velvet and midnight,
thriving
where silence kissed her roots.

among the red,
she did not wilt—
she shimmered.
not in gold,
but in obsidian grace
wrapped in the perfume of grief
and galaxies.

she was not less.
only different.
a hymn of thorns,
a waltz of ache.

the roses around her
spoke in bright laughter
but she sang
in echoes—
in lullabies
dripping from glass edges
still stained
with the stories of those
who held her too tightly.

there was beauty
in her breaks—
shattered, yes,
but glinting with stardust
and crimson.

she had bled
where no one could see
and still
she stood.

not because she was untouched
but because she was unclaimed
by ruin.

she was not born to belong—
she was born
to remind the world
that even darkness
blooms.

Hugging close, finally
Someone who’s hugging me back
With my thumb to her shoulder blade
Touching on bra straps while
She’s got her face in my chest
Both of us fully dressed, to be clear

“You’re my favorite,” she says
She prefers me to four other men
At least four with the
Three in the room and
The boyfriend she just got to
Make it official
It’s me
I’m her favorite

Maybe she prefers me to the rest of
The men that she’s met
That’d be swell and well um
Y’know, neat and stuff
She might even prefer me to strangers
Not saying that we’re well-acquainted
But we exchanged numbers so
I know her name at least
I think it’s really her name

She was loud but quiet .
She rebelled but yet repent.
She was snow yet fire.
She burned yet burnt.

She was one, yet two
Duality lived beneath her skin,
She was possessive, cruel
yet detached, aloof.

She prayed with eyes
She yearned in silence.
She screamed with tears
She dreamed of violence.

Her energy wasn’t radiant
It burned low, too quiet.
She loved the glow,
The beauty of  ice.

Made bonds, not deep.
She preached,
Not presence ,But soul.
Not me, but Bond
Not me but bond...


---

Confess your love for her —
or forever hold your breath,
and watch her
walk down the aisle
toward someone
she never truly chose.

Say it now,
while she can still be yours,
while her heart
still beats freely.

Tell her —
that you’ve loved her
since the moment
you first saw her.

That her smile
melts your heart
every single time.

That you can’t imagine
a life without her.
That she’s the reason
you’re still breathing.

That she’s the color
on your blank canvas,
the verse
in every song you’ve ever written,
the meaning
in every moment you’ve lived.

Tell her —
you were never whole
without her.
That she was the missing piece
to your puzzle,
the one that made you
complete.

Because if you don’t…
you’ll spend a lifetime
wondering how it felt
to be loved back
by the one
you never had the courage
to fight for.

her with the dark hair.
her with the hazel eyes.
her with the gummy smile.
her with the loud laugh.
her.
she's the one that
completely lights up
my day.
she's the one that
can change my mood
with a snap
of her fingers.

Umbră a Nopții, te arată,
Ca un vis ce-i rupt din Rai,
Ce-n lumină ești scăldată,
Mă chemai cu dulce grai.

Mă-mbăt de-a ta ființă vie,
De râsul tău cu gust amar,
Ești dorul ce nu vrea să fie,
Și visul stins ce-aprinde jar.

Pășeai încet, cu glezna fină,
Cu trupul tău sculptat în foc,
Privirea ta, o vină plină
Ce arde gândul, pas cu loc.

Și-n urma ta, tăcerea plânge,
Sub pași de vis, sub stinsul dor,
Se frânge clipa, gându-nvinge,
Rămân doar umbre care mor.

Rămâi, icoană neuitată,
Din nopți cu lună și parfum,
O flacără nemângâiată,
Ce arde-n mine negru scrum.

to hold her is:

to stroll across a bridge in the midst of spring
where the cherry blossoms bloom
and their leaves are seen flitting
across the pond’s reflection

to feel the warm embrace of the suns rays
as they magnify the beauty of the
purple yellow and red
petunias daisies and roses
which lay at the waterbed

to breathe a sigh of relief
at the feeling of fresh air entering your lungs
and replacing the stale dust which once lay

to listen to the serene chirping of the birds
as they build their nests;
the rustling of a deer in the tall grass behind.

to hold her
is to know silence
not as emptiness or a punishment,
but as a gift.

I want to tell someone
I want to be proud
But I’ll just be a joke
I don’t want to feel bad
I can’t help it
I’m happy with myself
I want to be happy with others but I can’t
Because they’ll just make it a joke

I love her,
But she says things like
“Oh no, a 97. Are u going to cry?”
I’ll bite my nails til they bleed
Stay silent

But, it’s like-
yeah.
maybe I will.