where nobody goes

 

You won’t find me in crowds - talking more than I can listen.
You won’t find me with the mean girls - petty small talk just isn’t in my nature.
You’ll find me somewhere distant - where no one dares to go, and everyone tends to flee.

If you're really searching for me - truly looking - you’ll notice I’m reaching out.
For you. For those who need it. I’ll reach for you. I’ll stay - I promise.

Loneliness doesn’t always have to consume you whole.
Let me see your soul. Let our shadows dance,
so the ones in our minds can finally rest.

Notice them. See how they follow your lead - not the other way around.
Let’s be friends. We bond in suffering - strangely beautiful, isn’t it?

My thoughts linger on you, wondering if you're okay,
hoping your pain grows a little lighter with each passing day.

I know my presence makes life a little more bearable -
I see it in your eyes. I see you.

Let me carry your pain for a while.
Let me help you feel light again.
Let me bring you as close to happiness as we can get.

A quiet offering for a friend walking through shadow

more than sad

 

I am not sad.
I am not down.
And I certainly don’t "feel" depressed.
My state of being is something
most minds can’t grasp.

There’s a darkness inside me,
not always loud,
but deep,
devouring me whole when it wakes.

Whimpers escape
as I gasp for air,
soft moans tangled with pain.

My mind pulses through my veins,
a silent traveler
making a pit stop
right in my chest.

Empty,
until it isn’t.
Now filled
with the weight
of my own unrest.

from the moon and back

 

I love you from the moon and back.

 

Just like you always say to me.
Unusual, perhaps, but so are we:

two souls, forever entwined,
together in every lifetime still to come.

We love in ways few ever truly grasp,
unconditional, sometimes trembling,
yet growing fuller with every passing year.

To live or to die,
I’d do either, if it’s for him.

I’d give my final breath
if it meant he could keep breathing.

And still, I remain,
even with sadness draped like a second skin.

Alive - for him.

Chronic, yes.

But so is my love: endless, burning softly,
like moonlight.

When I was a child,
I never imagined making it past eighteen,
only shadows, only silence.

But now, I’m twenty-five,

and for nearly six years,
my heart has belonged to him.

Who would’ve thought
that love could be the reason
I’m still here?

dancing butterflies

warning: sexual assault

 

Six years old, surviving in my mother’s nest,
where love was war, and strength the only law.

 

Some memories stay vivid, others slip away,
as if they never existed at all.

 

But one moment clings to me,
pulling me back, again and again.

 

I was six. A child, bathed in sunlight,

at a bar with my mother, my grandmother,
and her mother before her.

 

Laughter, soda fizzing on my tongue,
until my small bladder called for relief.

 

I went.
I finished.
I turned to leave.

 

But he was there,

a man in a wheelchair,

waiting,

watching.

 

His eyes devoured me,

as if I were something sweet,

something soft,

something his.

 

And he reached for me.

 

That day, I wore a skirt I adored,
pink, dancing with tiny butterflies.

 

That man tainted the thing I loved most

by lifting it.

 

He touched me.

 

With hands that stole what was mine,

what should have been mine alone.

 

Too young to know,
I let it happen.

 

Too young to fight,
I stood still.

 

Now, I live with his fingers in my skin,

ghostly imprints that time won’t erase.

 

My thighs clench at the memory,

and no water, no scrubbing, no soap

will wash away what he left behind.

 

I will always feel unclean.

And for that, I curse him.

 

feeling blue

 

The air thickens the moment I step inside.
Seven walls press in, unyielding.
Restless, I want to tear myself open,
Violently scraping my way out of this body like flesh from bone.

I cannot be with others, yet solitude pierces through my heart.

So I try to write,
Let words cut deeper than my thoughts,
hovering over my keyboard, hands trembling, breath unsteady.

But it does not save me.

I do not know what I feel.
I only know that I am.
That I exist in a state I cannot name.

Help me get out.
Get me out.

I crave burning, just to silence this tortured mind of mine.
I need pain - real, savage, physical pain.
Hurt me, break me.

Rip me out like a parasite. Tear this thing from my flesh,

burn it away, scorch this thing that lives inside of me.
Crack me open, take it all, take me...
I don’t care anymore.

I just want this to end.

cruel world

 

We tend to seek beauty in the world,

romanticizing what was never beautiful.

We call life a blessing, something rare,

but we were neither the first nor the last.

Consciousness sets us apart,

thinking in ways no other creature does.

 

But do you see beauty in death?

Is it beautiful when one must perish so another may live?

Do you find poetry in mass extinction?

 

We drape life in golden light,

as if existence isn’t stitched with suffering.

 

One day, we will all be gone.

Would you surrender your breath

so something new could take its place?

 

All will burn,

the sky will swallow the last ember,

and life as we know it

will fade to ash.

i am loved

 

My fiancé wakes me in the middle of the night,

beneath a dark sky sprinkled with light,

only to tell me how much fun he had while he was out with his friends.

Eager to share every little thing he enjoyed,

he strokes my hair, caresses my forehead.

He keeps me awake, but I don’t mind.

 

“I love you so much,” he whispers.

He is my best friend, my light.

And I am his.

 

This morning, I woke up to a home a little more put together, 

the dishes done, the space cleaner, calmer.

My dear sister slept over.

She wanted me to feel better, more at ease in my own home.

I know she struggled,

her nose runny, eyes red from sneezing,

but still, she stayed.

She is my little sister, my dear blood.

I am loved.

 

Morning still,

I gulp down my coffee as if I haven’t had water in days.

A cigarette between my fingers,

I catch a glimpse, 

my sister is loved too.

Not just by me, not just by my fiancé,

but by Mika, my beloved dog - 

a black German Shepherd with a ginger mane like a lion.

 

My sister sleeps on the couch,

drifting as far as her dreams can take her,

until Mika stirs her awake,

stuffing herself onto the couch beside her,

as if she were a lapdog small enough to fit anywhere.

Together in dreamland, my sister is loved.

 

And of course, Mika is loved.

Do I even need to say it?

 

Conclusion: We love, and we are loved.

the rising arc

 

Exhilaration pulses through my body today,
I feel like I can take on the world all on my own.
Am I manic?
Probably. Definitely.

The sun kisses my fair skin, sprinkling freckles across my nose.
Tiny specks of orange-brown appear on my slender fingers,
a few on my well-worn knees,
and some on the healed scars I carry from the past.
My chubby cheeks flush a natural pink, my lips a little more vibrant,
my eyes a little brighter, gray-green, sometimes blue.
As if my body and mind conspire to remind me
that I don’t really know myself at all.

But today, I’m okay with not knowing.
I’m excited to explore myself, the world, the people around me.
I don’t want this sunny day to end.
I just want to exist.
To feel the sun warming my skin,
to feel seen by these lovely people around me,
to talk and laugh at silly things that wouldn’t normally interest me,
to feel good, to feel connected.

These feelings are new to me, thrilling, unfamiliar.
It’s as if I’ve stepped into the unknown,
a place where happiness exists in shades I’ve never seen before.
Right now, only the rising arc of the rainbow is visible.
I hope the descent takes its time.

And when the full spectrum finally reveals itself,
I hope I’ll see myself, not just as a survivor,

but as an individual.

What if...

 

Almost another year dragged by.
Three hundred sixty-three days I’ve fought to stand here today, alive.
In two days, I’ll be twenty-five years old.
Life doesn’t slow down for those who struggle.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m trapped in a rat race,
faster is better, no matter the condition,
no matter the pain,
as long as you reach the finish line.

Pay your bills.
Contribute to society.
Pay your taxes like a good civilian.
But where is the finish line?

Mine seems closer.
I can see the ribbon of triumph, calling my name.
When I tear through it, will it mean victory or death?
Do I take ‘finish’ literally?
Should I leap and go for it?

What happens when I break through?
Will I fall into the unknown,
succeed, and finally taste happiness?
Or will I shatter completely,
letting death guide me to peace?

Two days.
Three hundred sixty-five dreaded nights.
The circle will be whole. Finished.
I will be twenty-five years old.

Twelve years away from that dark house,
the one that reappears in my dreams.
My nightmares,
rooms too small to move,
stairs too steep to run,
doors too locked to escape.

My body left that house long ago,
but my mind and soul linger there,
chained to the horrors.
Cold shivers crawl through me when I remember
the monstrous acts that unfolded within those walls.
That house, forever haunted.

The ghosts chose to follow me when I left.
I am the chosen one -
chosen to carry the weight of pain,
to feel everything,
to break the cycle.

But what if...
What if I don’t have the strength to pull it off?
What if I fail?
What if this horror continues?
What if...

I just can’t do it?

Addicted

 

I am a vessel for addiction,

I long to fill the hollow pain, to feel whole.

Spending money on clothes, shoes, glasses,

of course, my eyes deserve protection,

but my liver? That’s just an afterthought.

Working overtime while I gulp down every last drop,

wine, beer, wodka… it doesn’t matter.

Just get me away from me.

Powder or pills, I don’t judge.

Hesitation lingers as I face the mirror on the table,

a silent witness to what’s laid out before me.

All set, one line for each regret.

I roll up my ten-euro bill,

tight, but hollow.

Excitement shivers through me as I press it to my nose,

a sharp inhale, burning, numbing.

I wish I could stay here forever.

I don’t want it to stop.

And then it stops.

Shit... I need more.

I need something, help me.

Take away the shivers, the pain, the thoughts.

Look at me.

Look at this hollow space where my heart should be.

Help me fix this.

Please.

injured soldier

 

I run my hands through my hair,
and by the slick weight of grease,

I realize I haven’t showered in days.

I blame my styled, too-perfect hair.

Exhaustion drowns me as I change the bed
for the first time in months. 

I’ve been busy.

While I force myself to get ready for therapy,
I find all my clothes are dirty.

I am rarely home.

Eating is sickening. Talking is tiring.
Exercise is painful,
and happiness feels impossible.

I distract myself,
my dark passenger drifting away
for just a moment.
When I laugh at something absurd.
When I let the sun warm my skin.
When I smile so convincingly,
I almost believe it myself.

I fear the happiest I can be
exists only in these fleeting seconds,
long enough to remember,
too short to hold.

The sun pushes me, taunts me,
urging me to feel joy,
to live as humans should.
But maybe I am not made for this,
a faulty batch of human.

Time does not heal.
My wounds are fresh, they sting and bleed.
It is a battle to let them scar,
a battle I am losing.
I lower my head in quiet surrender,
I am not meant to mend.

I unclench my jaw,
loosen my shoulders,
try to rid myself of the pit in my stomach
called failure.

I am an injured soldier,
wearing resilience as armor -
cracked, ruptured armor.

When I die, will I earn honor?
Seven shots? A folded flag?
Will they remember me as the strong child,
or the torn woman?

If I choose to live,
will someone tap me out?
Will someone free me from the battles I’ve fought,
release me from this waking war?

I have not fought for this country,
but I have fought for my family,
since the day I was born.

My dear blood.
My siblings.
The ones I have raised.
The ones I have loved.
The ones I have bled for.

My blood, once pure,
now poisoned with alcohol.
My brain, tainted with addiction.

My sick body, entwined with
diseases of the mind,
a mind that does not wish to heal.

How do I conquer an illness
that longs to steal my soul?
An illness that carved itself into me,
shaping my character, my humor, my pain.

How do I cut out something so deep?

How do I rid myself of me?

where do you go?

 

Where do you go when your body is too drained to carry you,

when your soul is just too dark for light to break through?

Where do you go when the air turns heavy,

when each breath feels like choking?

Where do you go?

 

Tell me,

where do you go?

 

My vision starts to fade, sound becomes numb.

I can hear my heart crying, what do I do?

I start to shake, I feel so real all of a sudden, I feel alive.

But barely, am I dying?

Tears or sweat, I can't tell the difference.

My mouth opens but only whispers escape, is somebody there?

My body gives in, dropping me into the weight of it all.

The air is thick, ungraspable, suffocating.

I don't want to die like this, is this my time?

My blood turns sluggish, my senses burn.

I feel everything.

Please - let this end.

 

This time, my prayers have been answered,

but is it enough to save me?

How do I escape what I cannot see,

what I cannot outrun?

Where do you go when the walls close in,

when silence screams?

Tell me,

where do you go?

 

the devil

 

My whispers dissolve into silence,

unheard, unspoken.

Nothing feels as real as confessing.

A tale buried in the dust,

never asked for, never told.

Written by an aching soul longing for salvation.

I don't believe in God, but still, I pray.

I wear the bloody cross of sin,

a relic of forgiveness, of hope.

Its nails kiss my skin,

piercing deep.

Ripping flesh, leaving me open -

vulnerable to evil.

I softly welcome this sheep I see before me,

a warm embrace.
And the pain begins to simmer, no longer boiling.

Is this God?

A presence approaches, watching - lingering.

Now holding me as if I matter.

Even in the shadows, I am seen.

Even in silence, I am heard.

And for the first time,

I feel alive.

I feel cared for. I... I am held.

As if Mother Nature embraces me,

gently, warm.

Too warm.

Scorching now.

Is this salvation or something else?

No, this is not God.

Faith, I can't grasp.

What I see, I believe.

And I have seen the devil.

Felt his touch, heard him speak to me.

Held his hand, guiding me into the abyss.

But there is comfort in the dark,

familiarity in his grasp.

He is familiar.

The one with crooked horns,

and blades for nails.

Whose skin is black like the night,

and blood-red for eyes.

They almost twinkle when they look at me.

The one who reaches for me with something almost tender.

Cares for me, understands me.

The one who lingers.

The one...

The one who loves me.

trained to survive

The body of a woman,

tender, yet strong,

so often admired,

so often abused.

 

We cross the street when we see a group of men.

turn our heads, though we should have eyes in our backs,

because the attacks mostly come from behind.

We carry our keys,

gripping them so tightly our hands start to ache,

 

ready - just in case.

 

We lower the volume of our music,

or we turn it off completely,

trained to recognize sounds,

to know where they come from.

 

"Don't let them notice. Don't let them know you know," you think.

"Walk as usual. Walk somewhere safe - somewhere crowded."

 

We don’t freeze - that gives them the advantage.

We don’t flee - running means game over.

So we fight, even when we shouldn't have to.

 

"Dig your nails into him - make sure they find his DNA."

A thought that crosses your mind.

"Leave a mark - so they know who did it."

 

Your instincts tell you to scream, but don’t yell for help, yell fire.

People ignore cries for help, but fire draws them in.

 

Aim for sight,

aim for pain,

aim to walk away.

 

It shouldn’t matter what I wear.

We are not supposed to live this way.

fallen angels

 

You force your way into my thoughts, countless moments dragging me back to you.

"You’re not welcome here," I declared. "You’re not welcome here!" But grief doesn’t respect boundaries.

it wraps around me and robs me of my voice. My mind, body, and soul throb under the weight of your absence.

Exhaustion poisons every fiber of my being; sleep is a cruel joke now.

As sunrises bleed into nights, I am haunted by dreams that don’t know how to leave.

Now I walk this path with pills in hand - Once a promise to myself; I could conquer this on my own.

My journey is dark,

overshadowed by the presence of depression that follows my steps and carries me when I can no longer go on.

Some souls find God, others find comfort in the familiar, fallen angels reunite as companions.

Not everyone is meant to be fixed, some people are just destined to fall.

shadows of you

 

I’m scared,

I’m petrified, actually. 

To be losing you, to feel the grief once more.

Fearful of the thought that all that matters can just be ripped away

and be lost in the shadows of my memories.

Frightened to be reminded

how my body and soul will leave me on a quest to find you from the past.

our past, we have something together. Had something together.

My my mind will play tricks on itself just to soothe what has been lost.

I will seek and search for you in the deepest corners of my mind

just to find nothing in return.

 

A heavy blanket of longing hugging me

like my father squeezes me to death sometimes,

i can almost hear my bones break

whilst I'm trying to bend around your absence.

My mind, body and soul no longer collaborating and exiling me.

Just to grasp the memory of your touch on my body,

and the caress you left on my heart.

Still lingering in the forgotten.

My heart is not broken nor did you steal it,

you claimed a spot deep down.

I’m not scared to lose you, you are within.

I'm scared there is no more room in my heart

for me to fit in.

Unconditional love

 

They say unconditional love does not exist,

they say love comes with conditions but true love, yes true love is among our midst.

When i think about love, i imagine a stroll through a field of dandelions

that scatter everywhere and its hairs caress you face and tickle your nose.

A soft touch that can be perceived as pleasant or quite the opposite.

When i think about love, i think about the sea.

About the beauty in the reflection of the water, about the dangers that lurk beneath.

 

But what defines love?

Maybe it's buying the flowers at the store while you where there to grab some meat

for the meal you want to cook later for them, the black eyed Susan might not be their favorite

but you brought it home anyway because it reminded you of the sunflower which they adore.

Or maybe it's letting them go for their sake

because you're not in the position to love them rightfully anymore.

Love comes in numerous forms and leaves in just as many,

you can love wholeheartedly but it can leave you in despair if you're unwary.

They say my kind of love does not exist, that i am a dreamer but I'm also a pessimist.

To love a dreamer is like defying gravity,

going against all odds no matter the cost and to be loved by a dreamer

that's something like the moon and the sea, so perfectly align.

Lovers that are dreamers are intertwined like the stars and the galaxy,

going above and beyond just to scratch the surface.

So as they say, i believe with love there is infinity,

no surface left to scratch,

no end in sight and all the possibilities that it brings with it.

To be loved like the sea loves the moon is to be loved by me.

home

Cozy lights, fresh blankets, loving pets,

the smell of a home cooked meal

and parents who adore you.

The picture perfect, a dream come true.

laughter echoing through the halls,

warm arms that wrap around you tight.

Bedtime stories whispered gently,

so soft sleep and i reunite.

 

My reality was different,

the air was dark and thick.

The blankets were so thin,

always feeling like I'm sick.

the taste of hunger lingered,

a cruel and bitter trick.

 

The kind of hunger

that you stomach aches so desperately,

longing for love but it just wasn't my destiny.
Dreams collapsing like a raging war,

bombs of reality hitting me like shooting stars.

Never alone and nowhere to turn,

you. my mother, the reason i burn.

You visit me in my darkest nights, my dreams,

my thoughts until there is no more light.

Nowhere to see and nowhere to go,

a hollow space where shadows grow,
I reach for peace, but find despair,

your presence lingers everywhere.

 

Your hands were meant to guide,

to shield me from the world outside.

But instead they left me bruised and torn,

a childhood shattered, love forlorn.

The mother i needed, you couldn't be,

so i choose to set me free.
i cast you out, i break the chain,

but inside i still feel the pain.

The ties that are bound,

i tear them through,

but i still feel the bruise.
I mourn the woman i could be,

afraid she'll never come to me.

Now i say goodbye,

with tears rolling down my cheek.

Goodbye to my mother,

your love i will no longer seek.

 

The things i never got to say

I often drift back to my childhood - my personal hell.

People say, "I wish I could go back when life was easy."

But for me, it never was. It still isn’t.

I wonder what nostalgia feels like,

what it means to be a child without the weight of the world.

I grew up too fast, wore resilience with pride,

I solved problems, carried burdens, offered care.

But for you, Mom, I was never enough.

I scrubbed floors, fed the little ones, ran errands,

yet I was never allowed to rest.

 

"Why, Mom? What did I do?" I once asked.

"That’s just it," you said. "You never do anything."

I was your servant, the mother to my siblings, the maid,

the cook - the unwanted child.

Do you remember, Mom? My nickname: worthless brat.

Each syllable carved into my soul,

reminding me I would never be enough for you.

Now, I cannot call you Mom.

Mom became Mother.

Mother became Sylvia.

 

And yet, the child in me still thinks of you as Mom,

in moments of despair and moments of pain.

I am the daughter of a broken woman.

That cannot change.

You carried me for nine months,

but I have carried you ever since.

I see you in myself,

my goofy ear, my hair, my sorrowed eyes.

And I see you in the demons we share.

The anger I bury, the wounds I hide,

the pain I inherited without consent.

 

Now that I am engaged, it all feels too real.

You will not be there when I stand at the altar.

You will not meet my children.

They will not call you Grandma.

And one day, you will die, death will take your last breath,

and I will not be by your side.

 

Still, I hold onto a fragile hope,

that somewhere, in another universe,

we are whole.
That you are soft, unbroken, untainted by wrongdoings.

That love fills the spaces where pain once lived.

But here, in this life, we are cursed.

And I will be the one to break it.

My children will know me as Mom.

They will not mourn me while I still breathe.

It ends with me.

 

Still, some endings are not absolute,

unreachable, perhaps, but not gone.

Now I know why the night sky has always fascinated me,

on a deeper level few understand.

Because somewhere between those stars, I see you.

I see us - together.

Somewhere, we are united.

And such beauty can only exist

if the darkness is deep enough to let the light shine through.

So, I set you free - so that somewhere else, we can shine