the peasant girl
who once brought water
from the well
in cracked hands
has returned.
she didn’t mean to
leave her home behind —
it was just to escape
the silence between
what she needed
and would be never given.
she left with nothing
but a hunger for life,
so she started living,
and never apologised.

i've been clean for a month
because my box cutter is on the moving truck

i'm back in baltimore
but im not home
not really

everything's normal for two weeks
except it's not

i texted three friends to see if they wanted to hang out while i was back
only one responded
said she was going to be in connecticut

i wanna ask more people
but i dont wanna sound desperate

tell me i dont sound desperate

a green whisper  
                    curled on the curb,  
                  still as a breath held too long.  
                 its wing, half-open,  
               pointed nowhere—  
              or maybe back,  
             to some place it could  
            never reach.  
           rome moved around it,  
          unbothered.  
         motors loudly passed,  
        the occasional siren.
       indifferent sonatas,  
      and the fountains laughed  
     cold, eternal laughter.  
     i stopped,  
    but the city didn’t.  
    its feathers were soft once.  
   i could see that—  
  even streaked with dust,  
  they shimmered  
like something meant to survive.  
parakeets don’t belong here,  
they say.  
escaped,  
invasive,  
out of place.  
but it had tried.  
god, it had tried.  
  i walked the rest of the way home,  
   carrying it with me,  
    the weight of its silence  
     pressed against my chest.  
      and when i closed the door  
       behind me,  
         the tears came fast—  
           for a bird i’d never known,  
             for a life that couldn’t stay,  
                for the quiet way  
                    i, too, fell out of the sky.

I brewed the coffee more for you than for me,
A ritual dressed in honesty.
The mug you left — I held it near,
Like touching it might make you appear.
I wrote you notes you never read,
Then tucked them back beneath my bed.

I set your place, then stared at mine,
As if routine could rewind time.
I’d hum your songs to fill the space,
Mistaking ache for your embrace.
But holding on can blur the view —
I feared what leaving meant was true.

And so today, I break that thread,
Not out of hate, but love instead.
I’ll drink for one, I’ll clear your cup —
It’s not moving on, it’s waking up.

(on the ten-year anniversary of leaving home)

without looking back,
she boarded a flight,
concealing that piercing anxiety.
to soothe the ache,
packed her language as a guide,
weeping quietly for her country.

recognition came in tears,
stretched paper-thin—
that her home couldn’t yet grasp
that love begins within.

the early years, under flickering lights,
were spent seeking solace.
with inner voices softly humming—
inhaling cheap wine,
books as her compass—
enough to outweigh not belonging.

some nights,
she danced until her heels
worn the skin away,
bleeding her truth into tile,
whilst friends, thick as thieves,
melted into laughter, and gin.

she loved badly,
lit candles to soften the silence
that screamed louder at 3 a.m.,
scribbled poetry
on the walls of her soul—
long forgotten, left forsaken.

her twenties were a strange gift,
she never thought to ask for,
memories scattered down the hallway,
like spilled drinks, laced with honesty.
sometimes the weight is still sore,
and yet she’s walking,
barefoot,
unfolding.

If it has a beginning
It will come to an end
Irrespective of time and duration
Moment and memories shared

It’s time for closure
Inevitable as Death
Embrace it,it happens
There are better chances elsewhere

Move on
It’s time for closure