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I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.
Sometimes grief chooses the wrong name. And sometimes, we let it.
Juliana 1d
I’ll give you my heart
Even if I don’t have yours

It’s good to sacrifice for the ones you love
Please be careful with it

It’s fragile
Really really fragile

And every minute you spend mad
It cracks exponentially
We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as the sun rose.
We spoke in philosophical rhymes, unaware of the passage of time.
I realize now that the love we had is lost.
You reach for me, but I am a phantom. Long ago, I stopped reaching back.
Still, what we had—the raw and unearthly attraction, the bond forged between our two souls—is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I will be alone until love strikes my heart like it once did.
I want a love that burns me to ash and then resurrects itself from the remnants.
I want a love that bleeds, gives, and never makes me question my worth.
If I can’t have that, I am content with nothing at all.

-Rhia Clay
She undressed in the mirror.
Only the reflection watched.
I found her candle,
cold and forgotten.

Her hands moved like smoke
understanding how to be skin again.
Not performance. Not pleasure.
Just unlearning the habit of vanishing.

Her shadow held her shape
longer than I did.
She said: “Stay,
but forget.”

Her child slept, somewhere,
dreaming oceans away.
She etched a name in glass steam,
a word that burned too bright to keep,
then let it melt under hot breath.

There was a song
caught in the ceiling,
something we never played
but always meant to.

I kissed her hair while it was still hair
and not a question
left behind on a pillow.

I opened the door,
it sang some other man’s name.
A line drawn, erased. No message left.
The room forgot its language.
My ghost obeyed
and lifted.
Juliana 1d
How do I tell him
That he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me
And that I love him
Cause I really do love him
And have never met anyone like him ever before
When he won’t even talk to me
For a boy who went to the beach and never came home

He ran where the wind met the sea,
barefoot dreams where the gulls flew free—
sixteen summers held in his hands,
cut short on Ayrshire’s golden sands.

A footballer’s heart, fierce and bright,
he lit the pitch with laughter and fight.
Busby’s pride, a brother's guide,
a grandson's echo, a father's stride.

But one moment broke the tide.
One blade, one act, one shattered sky.
What words can make the silence speak
of blood spilled young on Irvine Beach?

A town now grieves in hushed lament,
a school wears sorrow like cement.
His desk, his voice, his empty place,
the ghost of kindness in every face.

And his father writes through trembling hand:
My main man, you’ll always stand
in every breath, in every dream,
in places you were yet to be.

Scotland weeps with East Kilbride.
A wound too deep. A soul denied.
We say his name. We rage, we cry:
Kayden Moy—too young to die.
doma 2d
strands of your hair linger
intertwined with my veins
cold, they were before
now warmth is all they feel

and even though your veins are gone
your temperature remains
my body refuses not to
bathe in your remains

yet, it still shivers
by even just the thought of cold
fearing that what once was gold
will all turn into mold

your veins
are all it yearns for
to it, time is so serene
too quiet to ignore

every blemish on your skin
every word once said
everything that happened since
every gesture, every breath
is one strand of hair
carefully sewn within
a body of despair
may 19th, 2025
mads 2d
He never got to come home—
or maybe he did,
but only as ash on a mantle,
a whisper in empty halls.

His laughter never found its way back,
his smile never crossed that threshold—
just the echo of memories
haunting every corner.

Photos line the walls,
one, two, three, four—
Father, Mother, Daughters—
but the count shifted somewhere along the way,
and we became three,
learning how to hold a space
he no longer filled.

We still set his side at the table,
his chair pulled close,
his side untouched,
clothes folded like time stopped in the closet,
everything still his—
a silent claim on a house that hasn’t been his
for eight years.

He left that home,
and came back in glass—
seven years ago.

So why does the house still belong to him?
Is it how we cope?
Or is it easier
than facing the empty other side?
mads 2d
Happy birthday, they say,
smiles soft and candles bright—
the noise of cake and laughter
trying to fill the empty space.

But sometimes,
all I hear is the silence of you not being here.

I laugh, and in that sound,
I hear a shadow of your voice,
a ghost in the corners of my smile.
Photos catch me smiling like you—
a flicker of what once was—
but the truth is you’re not here.
You won’t ever be.

I’ve waited years for the ache to ease,
for the weight to lift,
but grief doesn’t fade like that.
It hides in quiet moments,
sneaks in between the jokes,
and sits at the table with me,
uninvited but always present.

I watch my friends post their Father’s Day love,
and I’m happy for them—truly.
But a part of me just wishes
I could have had that too.

No one talks about how hard it is
to pretend moving on means forgetting.
My thoughts aren’t always of you,
but I think of you every day—
wishing you were here to watch me blow out the candles,
to laugh through the bad Christmas movies,
to open presents and be present.

Why don’t we say how hard it is
to be happy on a ‘happy birthday,’
when part of you is still somewhere else—
somewhere I can’t reach?
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