Lost.
Every child is born lost,
Every child is born alone.

We enter this world crying,
Small hands reaching for warmth,
A warmth we cannot create alone.

Stumbling, falling,
Too weak to stand on our own,
Helpless, dependent.

Molded by voices not our own,
Taught what to say, how to be,
Following paths laid before us,
Doing as we are told.

But as we grow, we begin to change.
We learn to rise without trembling,
To speak with voices that are now our own,

To walk where our hearts desire,
No longer imitating,
No longer afraid.

Courageous, independent,
Becoming our own saviors,
Because we no longer need another to be—
Found.

I hate myself.
Ah, what a shocking revelation.
Another day, another shipwreck,
Like I ever had a map to calmer waters.

I hate myself.
A song stuck on repeat,
An anthem my mind refuses to rewrite,
A weight pressing against my ribs, unyielding.

I hate myself.
And here comes the grand finale:
The urge to tighten, to silence,
As if choking on air could quiet the waves.

I hate myself.
So much that even my reflection looks away,
So much that even my shadow hesitates to follow.
So much, and yet, I am still here.

But you are here.
Somehow still standing,
A survivor of a war no one sees,
A heartbeat that refuses surrender.

You are here.
Your chest is tight, your hands are shaking,
Your mind swings between stay and run,
But at least you still feel, right?

You are here.
Breathe. Or let your body do it for you.
It knows how to stay afloat,
Even when your mind is begging to sink.

You are here.
And you deserve better.
Not because it’s poetic,
But because no storm lasts forever.

You are here.
And so am I.
So tell me, do we drown, or do we learn to swim?

As a little child

I already cried and laughed:


don't leave me alone.

1    
I eat thistles to do away with
my hunger for green life,

capturing in pixel ****** what
my prying eyes can not evade.

The forest offers no inheritance,
every branch has its best name


                          2
I wish to learn and know the work
songs of smaller, silent things,

blend not into the shrubs but rocks,
the mutes of this dry and dying land,

join the procession of farmers mourning
the lost voice of closeness to the earth.

                          3
These hands that  no longer clasp or
knead are but the repeated gestures

of an uvulating tongue that knows
that the egg in a pool of oil will

yield a dry dough of double thistles
in the purple slanted sunsets to come.

I walk alone,
where the sand forgets me.

Water calls ahead,
"It looks real",
"But so does a mirage".

My throat begs,
but my mind doesn't trust.

So,
I watch from afar.

On the windowsill, all flailing
Legs and desperation—
At times, it attempts to fly
Away, but soon enough it gives
That up as if to say,
“I can’t.”

The movements get smaller and
Slower, but occasionally there are bouts
Of hysteria
(𝙒𝙃𝙔 𝙈𝙀)
Until eventually nothing is left but a
Feeble twitch and really the question
That you should be asking is:
“Is it still alive?”

It is still alive.

It is still alive but it is tired.

Slowly…
Slowly…
Slowly…