The car ride home felt like a crawl across a ground made of nails. I listen to one song, thinking I could write a whole book from just that feeling.

I look forward to long car rides so I can listen to music for hours. But the thought of him, and the weight of his sighs, blinds me from even enjoying the silence in my own head.

I can’t tell if I’m thinking… or slowly rotting.

As we enter the tunnel, I feel his eyes peeling the skin from my bones, telling me I am home, yet I felt his heart was covered in rain. It doesn’t let me in.
As we exit, it feels like a break-free, but I’m still stuck in the middle. Am I free? Or Is he? Or are we simply lost?

He drives away from his truth, taking me with him in his front seat, leaving me to witness his colors under the ever-present moonlight. He drops his sighs like a cold drink on my thighs.

Love once opened the door for me when my hands were cold. But then love slammed it shut, right after me. It makes me wonder; Was it for me… or just for the motion?

Love holds back his words. Love is a black berry; bitter and unripe, unwilling to be digested, poisonous and rough, it is the deadly leap in my heartbeat.

And I was there, still in his front seat, carving away at my own skin, trying to shape myself into whatever he needed, until I had nothing left for me.

I sat in a spiral and asked myself, Is this who I want to be? Until I realized, love isn’t unkind. Love isn’t rude. It’s just an unfamiliar name, love letters kept in old pocketbooks, unheard and forgotten, once lost to make space for another.

All this searching, all this crawling,
only to find out;
Love was in the front seat all along.
Love was me.
It was never the blackberries under the moonlight.
It was me,
and the heart I buried
to carry his.

- Ulia Georgina

I’m scared of crushing people with my feelings. It seems that though I have this armor of mine that protects me from theirs, are they safe from mine?

I constantly ask people if I ever overwhelm them, and luckily, they always say
“you don’t”
I just wish believing them was as easy as breathing, if only my mind and I could be civil and agree that everything is indeed fine, they don’t want me gone, with all the certainty that they carry in their pockets, “stay.” but sometimes I know I can be insufferable and I don’t know what to do about it.

Feelings find shelter in my chest, feelings are all I’ve ever known, who am I, if not made of feelings. I’m worried it will slowly start to suffocate people, so I silently **** myself trying to push them away, in the hopes of saving them from drowning.

People from the past are victims of my feelings being too much of a burden to carry, so they leave, or I leave? I never truly know.

If you hurt me, it’s fine, at least you’ll no longer bear with carrying what I have to give, what I can’t give, my mind, 9 missed calls, unsent letters and everything else that weighs on your shoulder. I however will sit here in silence, looking into familiarity, as time and time again, I have and always will be seeing this coming.

— Ulia G.

I am the physical form of the river that's made of tears, a narrow ocean that flows endlessly, searching and longing for someone who will never return.

If we are taller in other dimensions, I do hope it's not because we've grown up, l hope we're just big kids, never grown up
ones, our memories will last longer and the sun shines warmer, not a cold Monday morning but a loud and bright Friday night kind of life, In another dimension, I hope we take better care of ourselves.

— Ulia G.

With somber eyes, I stare at your photo, with the desperation of you moving, maybe if I look at it long enough, you’ll start moving, and I’ll see your face with a smile again, you’ll laugh and fix your hair, you’re alive again, but it doesn’t do anything, Looking at your photos doesn’t change the fact that your soul lies beneath, listening to the sound of your left behind vessel, you’re quiet, and I’m desperate to hear you.

I question on a daily; how can someone who’s so full of soul and noise be so quiet and still? It’s unreal, you are a face without eyes and a body without voice, once filled with life now occupied in void, coursing through the big wide open, filled with stars and the absence of light with no certain destination, with no intention of coming back home. as your body slowly disappears underground and the only thing left of you are your resting bones pervaded by memories, do know that I left a trail of flowers from your grave to the place you once called home. You can always find your way back.

— Ulia G.

I spent the Thursday afternoon, visualizing your hands under the sheets of the mattress on the floor, we could barely fit in, wondering how you’d look in this light, when the sun has come down, I would slowly have to endure your long talks about photography, sports and everything else I couldn’t understand, but who am I kidding, “endure” wouldn’t be the word. Admiring feels just right. hearing you speak about what you love has fueled me enough to live for another lifetime,

For a moment, I thought you were home, but there was this strange feeling where your corridors felt unfamiliar and your hallways have always left me cold, I thought I was your home, turns out I am only a hostel, a place where you hold on to, for when you can’t set your decisions straight.
I was a vision your heart made when you were half asleep, now that you’re awake and all the sleep has left your eyes, I am nothing but a dream you slowly forget as the day goes by.

Your soft whispers that go over my shoulders, still lingers and leaves a chill down my spine, my bones have never been so un-bodied, if only you knew how I would have given everything to live in a perfect world where I could have you as my always, but instead it took everything from me to accept you as my “what will never be.”

— Ulia G.

I am no more than a rotting body, borrowing time, buried beneath the flowerbeds of my hometown, carrying a bag of constant melancholy and an unending battle with the curse of yearning, like an infant carrying its own bottle, so heavy that though I soar the sky with wings, I am a flightless bird, dragging my feet, wishing to find destination in the vast open world of broken prayers and uncertainties.

I am a sick woman, pieces and parts, drowning in the fragments of my own head, my mind growing ever cloudier, never getting a chance at happiness, always paying its debt.

We’re born at night; my body is no stranger to the dark. I lie here, No more than my shirt holding me together as the floor and I bond in despair, here I bleed, hoping for a wake never to come.

— Ulia G.