Notice how the walls have changed, how it is not grey anymore, but yellow, the outside of our prison. Suddenly all so colorful.

I hoped seeing it would make me understand—what is it that I want?

I don’t know.

I don’t want to be here I guess.

I just, I fall back into this vortex, gravitational pull towards you, then out again, away. Two asteroids. Collision? Casualties. You or me? The void is not filled, flashbacks mix. I—do not know. I simply do not have the answers you want me to have. It’s not like you asked. You never ask anything that will lead to a serious conversation, do you?

What do I want?

Saturday night. 3 days ago. I want.

You arrive for the surprise while I fill the water vase—Gatsbyesque, this scene, the atmosphere, the shoes and the marbles. My skin is made of tense electric wires, perhaps the adrenaline before the guests get here or your gaze, sudden, familiar, moved right away.

The leaves are making it impossible for me to create a good composition and I tear them, one by one. Few people move around the house and you stay outside, distracted. It’s good to have this glass window between us. Curious. All I can do it smile, look—away.

—

The seating chart has somewhat been fixed and you make a joke about how you’re always next to me. Fastidious comment, I wished for secrecy, though it’s embarrassing the way we’ve been going about this. We circle each other continuously. Denial.

I am wrong. You don’t have zero subtlety: next to each other, underneath the table you rest your hand on my thigh; stay. I feel the dimmed lights go brighter, the sky pink. You cannot possibly imagine what this does to me—I want—more, more, more. Shock waves all through my lonesome ribs, life around every corner of this small bit; you speak to others, distractedly, innocently, as if you are not aware of the consequences of your action.

I’ll be ashamed of it in the morning, or on the drive back, of how much I want it. Yes, primal hunger kicks in, again, again, again. I’ve completely lost control though I maintain myself. I’ll help out clean the dishes, fill a drink? Something to get you away from me, we can’t possibly be doing this.

—

You get into the pool with a swoosh; I don’t have my glasses on and simply gaze at the blurry corners of your back while you relax. There is no shame, a revisited Adam and Eve: climb next to me, hide with me behind this floatie—come on, let’s have fun. Drown me and pick me up, get me on your back, let my head rest near the crook of your neck. The alcohol kicks in and suddenly I wanna go to sleep. Notice how dark your hair is when wet, and shorter at the end of your head. I move my hand into it, feel your cold ear lean on my cheek.

Doomed little movements: your hand secretly moving up and down on the back of my thigh, a waist made to be held on each side. Slight squeezing and readjusting to keep me firm against you. Not even with my whole body can I wrap around you. The little hairs at the back of your neck pricking up if I breathe next to it, I think I want to—but. The awful daring of a moment’s surrender, the hottest flame burning the fastest, the erotic clichés of a random Saturday night. Why can’t we let each other have this. Safety. Digging down to the core there is our little game of make believe and the comfort of never really getting over or under it.

Perhaps you want to love and I just wish to own; I am mine. Freedom perpetuates the eternal chase, I know how to employ it. Tell me, when will you get tired of this. When will you stop. When will you just body slam into hard truth, lead a life of nothing but facts. Yes, I attribute it to you, how can you not, rational with the will of a monk, have they never told you? There are none. There are no facts. There is no truth. There is no purity to what I believe and there’s innocence in your casual Sunday pick up I’m going to eat you.

Devour me then.

What do you want?

I want you to take up courage, get me out of here, invite me somewhere near, say you know I want it. Ask how much I wish for it. What am I willing to do. Take what you’d like to be yours, just reach. Let our teeth gnash when we kiss, give into sin, please. Make me beg for it. For once forget of heaven and hells, love the sin, love the sinner, love it all, push, pull, tie, on all fours, just us two, take it all away—ravenously. Keep going. Don’t stop. Feel good to me. Be good to me.

Too risky.

Too emotional.

Too, too, too.

Better—heading off to sleep

—

Monday. I drive aimlessly.

Love is made of the same substance though it never tastes the same. I love you. You love me. We hate each other because you don’t know how to love me right and I don’t either. I do not dream of Mondays saying hi to the parents and constant updates, that’s why you hate me, while cannot help loving me.

My love to you is illusive, though I reckon it is exclusive. I love you the way I love no one, but you can’t possibly understand that because how could you. That’s why I hate you: you secretly think me a bitch for not letting you ever in and I understand how you might disagree but there’s no space for it on here.

Not everything has to be black and white, have they never told you. There is no such thing as facts. You love me and dream of taming, innocuous gazing, lego making. Perhaps.

What do I want? Why do you ask?

I promise I will not call, and that is the best showcase of my love.

thank you for reading Ally’s book nook! This newsletter has grown so much over time and it’s all because of you! please share your feedback and what you wish to read, I’m here for it!

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till the next time, 
find me in the stars and all the beautiful things there are...

love, 
Ally 

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irregularly 
a pair of tired limbs descending towards the mouth of yet another scorching subway—W, uptown, 57th 7 avenue. 

木漏れ日
dappled light invading our sidewalk; heading off to air conditioning. Blue mouths listening to our laughs, dripping from throats bare open—reaching into nothingness, a pool of white, merging bodies: a world two by two: the way of yoghurt packs and adjacent doors of tenants unknown.

usual 
places we sit at. The last cigarette, shared from my red Marlboros. deathly purchase; deathly, deathly we’re perfectly happy. 
Divine taste of lung slaughter, I’ll breathe in your air after. Into and out of-don’t stop. Keep going. coffee; when?
Reflections into the most petite of ponds fracture vague hand holding, me and you, cutting in from E 25st heading off into another melting spot. I wanna go to coney island. With the purple lights and all.

A liminal feeling. Sensational, springs of wind; leaves huddle and fall, rustle of our sheets, there it is! again! you and me!!  
phalanges reaching right behind your ear, into your strands of hair: my new fingerprints—stay, stay stay. 
accelerated breath, why are you looking at me like that? 

you’re my shooting star wish
what could you possibly mean? 

(cmon kiss me) i was getting used to it
what? 
the darts 
shooting right to my heart 
clouds of purple engulf 

Raw chicken at a barbecue, tomorrow night.
uh? / I’ll come to you, cmon kiss me. / It rains. I’ll hold your bags, ya want another cigarette?

elevens have a way of recurring: I’m always on the eleventh floor, on eleventh street at the eleventh hour. where have you been all my life? lonely lonely souls finally at home
but we’re out—but we’re in new york

hiatus. escaping from sirens to silence. corners have a way of introducing, dividing. 

where are we going? 
to sleep. / now? / forever. 

wh—

thank you for reading Ally’s book nook! this was DREAMLAND a project combining ensemble of pictures I made trying to tell a story, retrace a dream. If you liked this project feel free to check out the photos at the pdf here and share the work!

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DREAMLAND by Ally - all rights reserved

Dreamland

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till the next time, find me in the stars and all the beautiful things there are

love,
Ally

unknown tulips folding towards each other

I dreamt of you sitting on the source of life
Water gushed underneath two empty glasses;
—angel of a Saturday noon, disperse the masses
Take. Distinct and diverse, melody of kissing disperse

Satisfaction of the spirit: 
forsaking the instrument of loneliness.
Bliss, ferocious, washes away ability to reach
Lost in reveries.
To sleep. Perchance to dream: 
Blazing nucleus of pistils merging. 

Unknown tulips folding towards each other, 
One yellow the other red—

[I am just so afraid—dead 
freedom to love once again
Beware of I from pain recently weaned 

Have you yet to become fiend? 
I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten]

I dreamt of you next to me at a ball, 
Coca-colas rigorously drank with straws
It thundered and it stormed 
and droplets fell on my new home 

Let’s go to the movies—perhaps still love
Your reaction to the wrath of god. 

in the meantime, find me in the stars and all the beautiful things there are

Love,

Ally

How much is the awful daring of a moment’s surrender worth if all then is lost.

What have I? No pearly letters, maceration of the core.

In heat I drown and further grows my rustling of sheets. Death, death and a lot more dying sinks the room.

Papier mâché — composition of the rotting central organ

Whoever damned and condemned us to having our hearts torn to bits, worn. The sole idea of love implies acceptance of its horrors. Beginning. Endings. Firsts. Lasts.

The abyss between what starts and finishes is rather a liminal space, a tenth of a millimeter upon inspection.

Now it is all gone.

In your absence I do not rejoice nor despair. I should feel lack or an inching forward. Should I? I turn my head and you’re not there. It is peace I am after, have I told you?

Not that my day is tasteless, not that it is unsure, it is a day. An ice block of twenty-four melting, dripping slowly hours. Diplomatic matter our discussing of selves—I am fine. We know damn well we’re lying.

I should not want you. I should not want you. It’s like prayer, I should not want to. I wish though. I wish to want. Etymology: to lack. I want, after the hours protracted so long today, I want you to undo my shoe laces and tuck me in. I want you to sit on the edge of the tub while I get ready for yet another day. I want you to mix flour and water while I heat the oil. Mow the lawn while I wet the grass? Shield me, oh please, shield me from this cruel cruel world—delusions.

How can you rejoice at the thought of love? How can you give it for free? I have nothing to hand you in return. I swear. You cannot ask for my heart.

We understand desire only if we know its opposite. What have you to say? You love me because you hurt? Where do you feel pain? Why do you make yourself inaccessible to me? Mirrors off the walls we reflect each other enough.

Amare, the Italians use it for the verb to love or for the adjective bitter.

Is the reward then hurt?

What is never used can never be ruined. I should have known. I should have known.

It is 13.5°C out. Temperature has dropped significantly the way I’ve done. Are you angry at my helplessness? I have not given up. I have not given up.

Do not say you are not capable of good, you tell me. Only you do not know. I cave. I cave. Darkness profound is understood only in presence of immense light. Spotless. Spotless heart I used to own. Light. Take it out, my heart, see for yourself rotten, shadow—how could one ever love deterioration?

My act of love is protection; you still do not understand. You do not know danger. I suppose I am silly. Simplicity of existence lies in carelessness. I shall still call you tonight. I should not want to. I shall still do it. We shall still discuss the meaning of hurt, why aren’t you gone already?

You’re not here. I do not want you because I do not lack your presence. Are you proud of me? I am tired. Tired. Sleepy. Sleepy. Sleepy. I snuck in this boring textbook page what I could. Another hour or two, dull dull voice goes on explaining the childhood of an urn of bones. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll be seeing you.

πάντα ῥεῖ — everything passes?

It will pass.

Where does a lament thrown in silence go?

Aching pulse of loins — aliveness. Life, life and a lot more living rising in the sheets.

Still alive. Still alive.

I am. I am. I am. Still alive. Still alive.

till the next time,

find me in the stars and all the beautiful things there are…

Love,

Ally

No words in a month. How I missed you! While my absence isn’t definitive it is still quite ongoing. To make do though, I have decided to put together an ensemble of pieces I have found absolutely brilliant in my passive consuming at 3 am with a bag of hot Cheetos.

I hope that, if you are in a slump or a crisis, you will for a moment suspend all your effervescent brain activity and indulge in words not yours, with twists and unique nuances.

clem

skin on skin -- how to have sex with someone (you love)

I keep learning what sex is. I now crave acts that I never could have imagined being either erotic or tender when I was younger. New sensations and new contexts, often as much mental as they are physical…

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5 months ago · 1089 likes · 39 comments · clem

Clem’s Skin on Skin was a gripping read mixing erotic experiences with a perspective on intimacy that makes you want to jump right out of your bed and fall madly in love. Through lived experiences the reader is faced with the reality intimacy which often differs from that which we are used to see on screens. Real and comforting, Clem’s voice captivates in a moment and keeps you glued to the screen.

If you’re craving some unbelievably human content, this is it.

No Place in Particular

El precio / The Price

Jump to English…

Read more

4 months ago · 25 likes · 22 comments · JW Meyers

John’s writing style makes imagery come alive. How does a cigarette taste? How about one in two languages? Steinbeckian in his style, intrigue pervades this short delightful piece. An undertone of nostalgia and melancholia is felt in the back of the throat as words rattle off the tongue. Reading The Price feels like entering a surrealist painting.

If you happen to read it, make sure to also check his poetry (wow!).

i hate kate bush

the curious case of fiona apple: a lover's epistemology

Her song Parting Gift—Fiona Apple once said—is addressed to ‘all of the men I have known.’ That’s men, plural. It’s a sort of post-love letter for an entire fraternity of jading men. (If I’d written the song, it’d be much longer—there’s the compulsory joke…

Read more

a year ago · 436 likes · 10 comments · i hate kate bush

Now, this one has a special place in my heart because I LOVE Fiona Apple. The electricity of this read was intense. Mixing an analysis of Apple’s music, personal experience, more music and movies, I hate Kate Bush’s piece will make you want more and question whether you have ever been understood. Dense in her telling but also precise and intriguing with her words, she’ll leave you breathless and with an irresistible desire to listen to Fiona Apple (I always recommend Paper Bag to begin).

Celina's Substack

Are we in a post-literate society?

As the curtain of totalitarianism descended across much of the globe, in the mid-twentieth century, the Western intellectual class pointed to George Orwell’s 1984 as a blueprint for societal ruin…

Read more

4 months ago · 101 likes · 27 comments · Celina101

It’s food for thoughts time! How lovely and refreshing it was to read a piece with such thorough research done. Are we or are we not victims of our devices? What does that lead to? A great way to get a sense of what’s happening is all condensed here. Celina’s piece will give you access to a ton of sources to give in even deeper into your curiosity. I find it quite interesting to read about topics I know nothing of, it makes me feel like I’m in school and it keeps my brain busy with ideas for the rest of the day.

live journal

Laughter is the best medicine

Earlier this year, I wrote a silly riff that started as a joke, over a love song to my antidepressant. It got nominated for a Grammy just last week. I feel like Nathan Fielder…

Read more

10 months ago · 32 comments · hayley

Lastly, I MUST recommend my close personal friend Hayley’s piece on her song Mirtazapine. It features a video showing how the magic of music happens. I am constantly inspired and in awe of Hayley Williams. Her album has been a lighthouse helping me navigate this year and those complex—complex—feelings. (losing the ticket war for the Italian show is, to this day one of, if not THE, saddest moments of my life, I really needed to scream I’m in a band, even if I ain’t in no band). Ego death at a bachelorette party features scaly synths and retro pop-rock, mixed with unearthly vocals and impeccable writing.

Thank you reader,

I will bee seeing you very soon.

In the meantime,

find me in the stars and all the beautiful things there are

Love,

Ally

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A yearner is not a dreamer. Dreamer in its more subtle sense: one who desires and strives to reach its wish. A yearner is a malfunctioning dreamer, a masochist if you will, who, when almost met with its desire, throws it farther away to perpetuate the chase.

There is a tendency to believe that yearning is a straight line: subject—object. In reality, yearning is more a circle: subject ↺ gap — desire.

The French philosopher Jacques Lacan, in his lectures, defined the human condition as one of primordial lack. Said condition of dissatisfaction originates during the early stages of our lives and somehow coincides with the creation of the ego, happening through what the thinker defined as the mirror effect. During our first moments of consciousness, facing a mirror, we create an image of ourselves whole, perfectly satisfied, which does not coincide with reality. When grown up then, the dichotomy of self and ego is lacerating: a hole is generated at the height of the chest—something missing.

The ego is not the only lack generator. Lacan defines three orders that have at their intersection the pain of dissatisfaction, lack, or, as he defined it objet petit a. The orders are: reality, imaginary (to which the ego belongs) and symbolic.

The symbolic order is that to which the Big Other belongs to. Whether you call it God or the law, the Big Other, an invisible, impersonal structured system of rules, impedes your jouissance—happiness. By imposing itself on mankind, the Big Other generates an ensemble of structures that forbid certain actions and dictate wish, further amplifying lack.

To put it simply, while the imaginary refers to the realm of images and the misrecognition of the self (through the ego), the symbolical order is the framework that regulates desire and interpersonal interaction.

The third order is the most complex and the last puzzle piece in order to understand a yearner’s desire. Lacan distinguishes Reality from the Real. Reality is the result of the Imaginary and the Symbolic while the Real is a concept in itself untamable and chaotic, a reminder that punctures the constructed reality. Jouissance then becomes the only way through which one can experience the Real. Lacan says it is pleasure in pain: the instinct that pushes us to repeat behaviors we know to be harmful because on an unconscious level we enjoy it.

At the intersection of the orders the object petit a thrives. The unattainable object of desire (object petit a) is the form lack has when represented. So, it is not the ultimate objective of desire itself, but almost a blurry impression of it, as if the desired thing was seen from afar.

A yearner imagines and imagines his most ardent wish, pictures the wholeness of possessing it, but trades that feeling for the holiness of the perpetuation of lack—object petit a.

Yearning then is jouissance because it thrives on absence. In Lacanian terms, desire seeks an object, while joussance is satisfied in the state of tension towards it itself.

According to the philosopher then, this lack generates a state of dissatisfaction common to all humans. Taking it to the extreme, the premise of existence is unhappiness. But the yearner, a true connoisseur of emptiness, coats the ache in sugar and gulps it down. To be satisfied is to be bored. To yearn is to be intense. Through the medium of pain, the yearner stays alive and is in love with the ache.

I wonder if Dostoevsky was not mistaken when naming one of his most famous characters the dreamer. Would he have been happy if Nastenk’a had loved him the way he had imagined? Oh, but if the dreamer stopped yearning for realities far from his surely, he would disappear into the gray fog of St. Petersburg. It is precisely why he doesn’t get the object of his desire that he can say “a full moment of bliss”,because he can dwell in the happiness, bathe in the aphrodisiac nostalgia.

Yes, it is not about having, it is about wanting. It is about challenging the laws of nature: a whole moment of bliss! How long can you extend it? With what precision can you balance the painful folding of the self and the aperture love grants?

Yearner. When I am beyond all this, up in the clouds, will this ache be more flavorful than actually obtaining my object of desire? I wonder if I will hate my object petit a when my self respect will have prevailed. Don’t I already? I don’t think so. I don’t know.

Truth is, and I stand unshaken when saying it, that yearners belong to the dirty parts of a newborn heaven. Yes, we make colorful gods, us enjoyers of sweet demise.

I venerated.

The worship of the punishing god, benevolent god, who takes away only to give back.

What does (filthy) heaven look like? All blues. Lots of empty space. Death, death, but not enough to die. Three coffees on Monday, then none on Tuesday—I am getting better. Happiness, perhaps. Watches scattered around: on wrist, wall, iPad, phone, clock tower from window. Passing of birds, lightness. No thoughts, no more gods, music. Dancing; suddenly picturing. Hell. No showers. Desperately in search of the memory gun to make it go away; tea to fight urges, no jouissance: healing. Desolation. Stagnation. Betrayal. Robot phallus to murder lungs with, blueberry flavor—again, blue. Physical pain will distract the mind? Trains. Hope. Death, death, death, but not enough to die already. Foolish misfortune, title of song translated. No more yearning, freedom? Empty bed. Same bedsheets as Christmas Day a year ago—spiraling. Julia, ache getting slowly untangled, progressively smaller. Food. Cheeseburgers. Chinese duck, wildly expensive. No food. Silly want to disappear, attainable desire. Feel something already. Those in pain seek it out. Come down, come down to earth. How to live normally(?). The pain won’t stop mother said, but she can’t cure nor comprehend, she said. Freezing stream of air penetrating from line uncovered by curtain. Hard, Hayley Williams. Hit me. Gin tonic, gin tonic, wine, gin tonic. Visions. Emptier spaces filled. Boredom, sign of recovery? Unexpected success in other fields. it is spring now. Stars. Sun.

Perhaps, perhaps, escape.

Thank you for reading Ally’s Book Nook! If you enjoyed this piece and would like to read (or watch) more of my work:

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Till the next time, keep the conversation going…

Love, 
Ally

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Listen, I am going to play as it lays and say our life begins with grief. Paradoxical, unconventional. I am incapable of explaining it, but we begin where life finishes, that’s our meaning of ends meeting. We begin with M. passing and not a word of it after the funeral. She disappears from our lexis like an old slang word, like groovy, when we go back to school. Her pink pillow is still on her chair and nobody wants to sit there. We are 13, smallest number we’ve ever been and our life is about to begin.

Nobody is be able to stand each other’s gaze and we spank the elephant in the room with “we still have time” “let’s not think about it” as if imposing and incessant the future doesn’t loom. Each will take a different path in two years and a half. It seems so far, life stopped with the crash of a car. Here, we begin to diverge: the womb enveloping us, one by one births us all, excruciatingly bestowing upon our backs a cross.

Though no religious symbolism can save us from unbearable cruelty: no Jesus, no messiah, no God can justify her disappearance and so, we draw further into our shells and keep silent, trying to hold the time we have with our gaunt hands.

The neglected orphans, this is who we truly are, no professor can ever explain our past. So we sit still, and I let Dante wash over me.

Per me si va nella città dolente,

Per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,

Per me si va tra la perduta gente.

We sit still and passively swallow the pages, drowning rages, too impaired to ask a question. Yes, we have been abandoned.

But today, I forget the shame, humiliations, afternoons of consternation, endless anger, passions exhaling their last breath and time completely stolen.

By now there’s Mr. Saul, never raising his voice wrong and we are here but, Mr. Saul’s unconventional religious class is on.

Thursday, last period, window open and the first timid February sun; chocolate cookies. Heart shaped, symbol of a warm embrace. Silent understating, mourning made collective. Two each. Us, yes, the neglected orphans, surrounding THE desk, uncharted territory, crossing line of separation between the trenches and the enemy. Us thirteen, ten today. The survivors. Us wrong, confused, messed up, afraid, grown yet infants, suspended within the limbo of adulthood and childhood—this is purgatory. Us, still, searching for a way or an answer, at least a tiny morsel, please, an answer.

Julia, Bea and I are here and the smoke seems to recreate the room near: El with her creative estrus and a red ribbon in her hair, constantly drawing. Anne, ready to raise her hand, hair up in a pony. Sylvia, silent fox, observant. Alice, the last to come, a broken pinky and sorrow as great as ours. Mr. Saul with a grey hair and Nike air, reason of commentary in an all girls class. This too shall pass. Niky with her electric blue and Gaia with her raucous laugh. Charles, blessed to be surrounded by estrogen, with his constant look of silent stoicism.

The golden haze of this Thursday, we will never be so happy again, amidst our tests and deaths.

The vomit green walls, black tv mirrors us like this.

Yes, us thirteen, looking for an anger we can’t anymore find within.

Yes, it is February and we’re far from the obituary.

Yes, the sun stretches its arms just for us.

Yes, this is where we begin.

The fizzy drink awakens the blink.

Ally are you going to let all the ice sink?

Right.

So this is us three and then, then there’s Peter. Named after Peter Kavinsky who looks, smells and acts nothing like Noah Centineo but the nickname stuck the way the ricotta does on our palates as we munch on an overpriced cannoli. Sinner still thinks we have a chance though our story ended in middle school and he’s not so cool. That’s a pussy drink. Ginseng.

There’s Rocky who seems to have matured only now, like soon he’ll respect a silent vow. He seems to understand a joke better and is nicer when you let him.

I miss him.

Oh Bea, you’ll see him tomorrow.

Oh but now I am full of sorrow.

Growing men impose on our conversation, ever present in our mind. We must learn how to trick time.

Another puff. I’ve never smoked.

This chuckle is choked because I am grown and I see memories of a field half-sown: I fell in love with coward and I’ve been waiting for two years, my condition is always bringing me to tears.

And there’s a colossal skein of emotion right in the middle of my ribcage which doesn’t let me think nor feel clearly. I might cry guys.

Don’t be silly.

Sip, sip.

You must understand, right now, here, we are living, though it looks like we’re barely surviving from our chipped nail polish and exhausted laughs. And my hair is constantly out of place—my english teacher hates when I begin a sentence with and, but I will do it anyways because things are changing now.

And I cry.

The aftertaste of delicious smash burgers eaten elbow by elbow seasons our words. Frantically, irregularly we let out our philosophical souls. We seem to understand what is right and what is wrong though it has been clearing, the idea that nothing is ever ultimate, not even death.

And I cry.

Yes, because death began our lives, do you know what it means to be alive? It means you’re all gonna laugh and say “let’s grab 2026 by the nutsack”, pee a little in your pants then go home and be paralyzed under the shower, understanding the impending doom with a droplet of water. Do it again tomorrow. Somehow, essay writing the first three hours brings dread and joy—life.

And I cry.

To be alive means that after two years you can mention M. slightly more often, it means her name has not been forgotten, the tongue still knows how to move like a sword, a name cutting through the air: the blade between absolute darkness and an alternation of equally beautiful sunrises in our vomit green classroom, fourth floor. If you listen close enough you can still hear her laugh.

And I cry.

To be living means that M. still exists: the last word over death appears to be life—this bitter tonic, water we’ll pay 7 bucks, Bea’s clouds of smoke matching the denim on her thigh and Julia’s blue coat which gives her the Albert Camus gloat.

This is life, now. And I cry.

and the unbearable feeling that everything is changing right now under my eyes: And I cry.

This is an impossible dream, how can I fit three lives in a blink? Four, actually, five or even thirteen. Hundreds to be correct, people gathered out the church and said “must be a politician”. No, a 14 year old girl, dead.

Oh it’s serious she’s whipping the notebook out.

I search the verve of the poets in this only line I am allowed to annotate as cold air pierces our minds. You must understand, I—I have tried to write books only after I began living: life after death killed all the placid meaninglessness of a mediocre existence. Only two works brought to completion with great banality, but I must let you see this, I am trying, because this is all I own: Bea and her slight mouth click before she’ll say something she really means and Julia, silly, showing her teeth hiding her upper lip.

This is all I own.

So we turn spoons or straws in our cup as if to mix, will finally make us fix—Bea and I would finally politically agree; Julia would never leave.

You must understand, I’ve never been had like this: singing and pirouettes even at eighteen, they accept I waiving to strangers and vomits of constant words, my restless mind. This is all I own.

Of course, Bea should find common ground with him. Supermarket plastic bags lose their meaning. An inside joke run too long is just a sentence said with an intonation wrong.

Julia is in crisis nonetheless because she avoids liking Peter, she wants better. Perhaps today we’ll have no cheaters. Bea and I discuss: no, yes, no. Smile. Smoke.

And I cry.

A giant dachshund, stuffed, dressed as a butler with a green tuxedo à la great Gatsby stares at us with a smile. People, exposed, in the window converse with the Italian verve: hands move and eyes look big; I can’t believe we look like this.

and the unbearable feeling that everything is changing right now under my eyes.

I meant to tell you about us, how Julia did not come to France that year. My ass the shape of the bus seats, we travelled for days on end and stayed in what I imagined to be rebuilt brothels and the monuments were all dying Madonnas, but we didn’t really understand French, and the religious tension stiffened.

Do we believe in God? Bea believes in angels, there’s an afterlife, somewhere we must have a place to go. Julia is drastic: worm food, god is just something brewed, a clever inventions for the lonely souls.

But aren’t we lonely now?

Aren’t we stranded, abandoned to a future unknown—where does university lead?

Weren’t we fourteen three hours ago? How can the world not devour us, confident we look, but we run to safety and swallow fear when crossing the street.

Wasn’t it yesterday we had our first pajama party, Halloween, dressing up at home, eating McDonald’s on the bathroom floor?

Bea and I had great meals, great wine and I told her: I think about him all the time in front of a plate of bœuf bourguignon with a touch of lime. The sun shone on striped french chairs, right in front of a church, passion of Christ, I knew I was in love, my drinks always iced.

Life seemed dreadful and easy then.

But here we are, that moment now two years far. There’s her laughter in a distant piano.

M.

The lesson went like this: life rearranges itself, there’s nothing tragic in being alone, from immense pains sprout even bigger joys.

And now we are wild of that wildness allowed just in dreams, only that we are flesh and bone.

I can feel the shivers of reality unfolding within my own woman body, grown.

Thank you for reading Ally’s book nook! This was my first short story, what are your thoughts? share them here!!

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Estrus

And I will not wet my mouth 
with filth—kiss. 
Tonight, I need it just like this: 
Lean into me and 
say you don’t drink 
out of straws.

One flesh. 
One in your drink anyhow,
Straw for me
Please. 

Under witness who 
Nods in silent bow,
The liquid fills my mouth.

Let me receive.

A hand finds my waist
 Time tightens its lace.

Thank you for reading Ally’s book nook, I am aware poetry doesn’t get shared a lot on here, but if you did enjoy this poem make sure to:

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Love,
Ally

I point to my temple. Shoot with a hand tremble.

We parallel lines, strip the road of all pedestrians, imagine futures and pasts ahead of us. I see you and you see me in the corner of a blink. At a red light you don’t turn your head right. I wait for your move and somehow let myself think freely too. I imagine you won’t read my mind now, you’re not mad and I wiped the religious guilt out—today.

I can feel the effervescence of your brain, burbling thoughts you can’t name.

Mother, if existence amounted to us in this McDonald’s stinking car, today I’d—

I don’t know.

I’ve never heard you blurt it out to me, the small sentence craved since childhood, epitome of approval and praise, so it is weird observing the string of words melting on your sealed tongue now, while you cry.

Why do we sob?

What do we weeping willows have, if not each other? Oh but the rage and misunderstanding and inability of expression and silence and exhaustion and chained freedom.

How do we free each other from the guilts we have engraved in us? Because it is you the only one who can grant me the freedom, as it is I the sole being who can do the same.

Mother. I can feel my twigs engulfing you, I can feel your pain. Do not ache for me. Do not ache. The hurt I do alone nowadays. I’ve been hiding it, mother. Not as punishment, I do not wish to inflict upon you the silence you have delivered to me countless times. I wish to protect. I wish to know my own name, reach my own roots into the soil, hit rocks, make them parts of my ground and let vicious arms chop my branches. I wish to bleed my lymph, for I have bled bravely up until now.

Do not extend your weeping branch to strike me, mother. Your anger will not be the answer to my hurt.

I do not loathe you. Do not cry. I do not loathe you. How many times should I repeat it for it to be true?

But how, how can I make you understand? I can bear wounds from strangers, but not from you. I do not wish to gather up apologies for your silence to end, I do not even wish for it to begin.

I want you to be happy.

I am happy now.

I am happy now.

This glutinous existence of mine has suddenly made itself a cloud.

I can breathe, mother. I have not rotten fully!

I HAVE NOT ROTTEN.

Mother, are you happy?

Does this grey word excite yellow feelings within you? Are you happy with me? I have not let it win, this thing. I have not! Why throw your anger at me for tears of salt? Catharsis is natural after all.

I am proud of you.

But also angry, at my affliction.

I am proud of you

At this green light, I do know you felt it so: the agony of affection and the gentleness of innocence ripped by the saw—the bitter joy of living lost.

Mother, it is like this road we travel of rain consumed gravel, confined and inescapable, the generational curse: oldest upon oldest soul should bear the weight of the unknown, remain stuck in a palace of swords.

Mother, please, be proud. Not for an A I can live without,

but for my choice to continue in times of drought.

Mother, I point you to my head now, watch me pull the trigger:

Rose bullets shift, crown me with bleeding hearts,

We still stay silent in our car.

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Love,
Ally

In weakness we are called to question our meaning, existence, all of it. We are made to feel tension towards this infinite lantern of want.

The day death showed at my doorstep I knew it had stricken again on my youth. So I bow to the weight of a life cut razor-thin. Here, I bow. Here, I hold what remains

Find me underneath the statue, after

my old life crawls back to me 
at the lord’s house.
In this newborn square of sun 
I see it walk past 

these four imposing men
of white gloved hands 
take away from me the only truth 
I’ve ever
      Drinked 
            sown into my hands,
     as Jesus cracked our knuckles,
car seats with no buckles. 

And the old organ plays a known song,
Maurice never moved his hand wrong—
and our maimed hearts lacerate,
we’re barely broken in,
barely even seen
this isn’t what  you do at 17.

Though the word is spoken,
take this token:
death is not farewell,
it is the fulfillment of 
life. Period. 
No, comma. 

So here I go,
   Lord rip what I sow 

Feel the immanence 
of this present tense—here
I am. 

Thank you for reading Ally’s Book Nook! Being able to publish my poetry here makes me immensely happy. I do hope you enjoyed this poem, if you’d like to read more don’t forget to

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Love,
Ally

Happy new year!!!

Being this the first week of 2026, I thought it best to introduce a playlist that could serve as a bridge between the old and the new year.

If there’s a lesson I learnt in 2025 is that boldness is required to face change.

In order to alter your story and take a different path you must first leave the old, known one you’re on. In other words, sometimes a leap requires leaving a few things behind.

I know, it can be scary and uncomfortable, but that’s the price of change.

Given this premise, today’s playlist is epilogue — it gets better

This playlist is the sound you hear after the elephant’s foot that is the weight of things you should leave behind, is lifted off your chest:

The idea of this mixtape is to take you on an emotional journey: you go form the panic and pain of not getting what you wanted, to the quiet embracing of this flawed reality.

It’s the playlist of acceptance and beginning. From this imperfect reality, you can have what you want! Love never stops by once. Opportunities, they will come. Joy, there is plenty all around you!

Here you’ll find

• Golden tunes like Hey Jude

• Gems by Bleachers such as I wanna get better

• Royal Heart by Andrea Gibson, an absolute masterpiece that will speak to your soul

• And an epilogue that will have you looking back with bittersweetness and not regret.

Instructions for use:

This playlist is a crescendo, a scream you let out into the universe I AM HERE. You’re called to give another chance to all that has hurt you, create a new path.

You sit in your room weeping and wallowing when Fix you starts.

When you love someone, but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Life seems to make a fool of you, laugh at your misfortunes. You say there’s no other opportunity

But if you never try, you’ll never know.

Rise. The world calls to you, it is time.

The winner takes it all then follows, it’s that one last look you must have to completely understand nothing is salvageable.

Does it feel the same—it never will! It never will!

On the sea follows. This song follows your steps. You finally begin to walk, it’s painful.

Wouldn’t you like to know

How far you’ve got left to go?

You walk faster as if that will help you forget the pain. A decision as been made, one must stick by it.

Your heart is full and now it’s spilling

The music grows louder, you begin to run. A new life is waiting for you!

Then you have Under pressure and Hey Jude which are literal hymns to life: one must love, one must live. They’ll be your close friends in times of doubt

Why can’t we give love that one more chance

The winner is… plot twist! Was the winner real? Did he take it all? The high of your new life feels your eyes with possibilities.

Long story short is the first time you acknowledge the ending: you survived.

The playlist follows with Stop making this hurt, dance your heart out to it! Finally, the time has come, not to forget the hurt, but to honor it, heal it into happiness, let it make you better.

Other awesome tracks follow such as Don’t stop by Fleetwood Mac (for when you doubt and think you have to go back), You get what you give (to remind you that you still got music in you) and Buon Viaggio (an Italian song to hold dear when hours of travel get boring).

The great finale is Laura Palmer’s theme. Flowers bloom. It is your spring now, a time to finally fully shed the old skin.

Say your goodbyes bittersweetly.

Life is about holding and letting go.

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Love, 
Ally

Here is how my highly confused, dizzy, 5 am self, sitting on a closed toilet bowl felt about New Year’s Day! (Up here you have the audio version! Enjoy!!)

In case you wanted to replicate the conditions of my writing, a thin wire of courage was infused in my typing thanks to this song:

You, saggy old reflection with a pimple glowing on the left side of your nose, omen of blood incoming, shan’t abandon yourself today.

January first is for jotting down confused thoughts sometime around six am, sitting on a closed toilet bowl, color of white washed dreams.

Still the room spinning, you’re allowed fuzzy reminiscing and shame for drunken thoughts.

You’re allowed to thank the resting spirits of your friends, who prevented catastrophes pulling away mobile phones.

Enjoy the echo of your chuckles in this childhood bathroom, remembering your group performance of some divorced-wife singing-for-her-life song.

Yes, it is all about it. IT being you. You, dear self at an impass.

There is doing and not doing,

There is movement and stillness,

You remind yourself, as if that will give decision making less stress.

Little do you know, on January first there’s both.

Hope corrupts, hope disrupts the fabric of reality. You know. I don’t need to tell a soul.

On January 1st you can allow yourself that.

Hope.

Allow it.

Renew this eternal sacred vow on which your world spins.

Stand and open the window of this new year. Perceive the shapes of trees held by the first rays of sun—mold these branches into a golden coin, shortsightedness has its privileges after all. This is new. This is color of endless possibilities.

This is the new year.

This faded gold you hold.

This is the new year.

Press your body against the cold metal bars, observe your breath transform air into dragons.

This is the new year.

Polaroids on a bathroom floor.

Hope.

Try to go back to bed, sweet old reflection of mine.

Life will still happen to you after nine.

The kaleidoscope of your existence is now and will be tomorrow, as it was yesterday.

Let the colors absorb you today, an atom of stardust among millions of other ones.

This to say, you’re allowed to cling to the metal box on January first

Just to understand it’s all gone.

Just to understand it all has to happen yet.

Just to understand you can accept.

January first, things can be put into perspective, especially because your body seems to abandon you in this scorching heat, in this abandoned room.

Your mind remains. You mind. Your goddamn mind, the maze, the prison, the secret garden, yes, on January first you can let it accept.

You can let it disagree, misunderstand, but still accept.

You’re allowed to be relieved of this pain today by letting it crush you.

New year, new beginnings, but you do not need to begin. You do not need to add another layer of polish to this pretty puppet you hide in. On January first you do not need to lie again. That is not beginning.

January first calls for continuing.

You’re allowed to let the ghosts from 24 hours ago, pass your threshold without saying no.

You’re allowed to search and delete and form and disrupt sentences that should prove the existence of luck.

You’re allowed to search for a heartbeat in the fabric of your grey pillow.

You’re allowed to whisper names deemed unspeakable in far yesterdays.

You’re allowed to question darkness on losing and finding each other again.

Let it all devour you, in your impairment, let January first into you.

You do realize today, lonely in this lost darkness, that if you could only rise, rise I say, that your light has come shining.

That you do hold two stars in your hands, they sat by you last night with a crochet blanket over them. That was the kaleidoscope, the granny squares twirling and jumping, yes. Those were the endless possibilities becoming one,

with a word here came a path.

So won’t happen today. The paths will all pierce through you, still as you are.

Which one will see faith come?

That is January first,

Self and soul.

An anti-epitaph, not here lies,

but here continues.

That is January first.

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Love, 
Ally

I observe the hours drip to the sound of a broken sink. 
My childhood home. In its estranged familiarity I find discomfort, tonight. 
The dog exhales in deep sleep to extend this burning second. 

I pace like I wish the three grey dots did.

There never seems to be the time to write, I enjoy saying. As if my life, filled with engagements and whatnots takes meaning, importance. 
In hours of confrontation I accuse my reflection of keeping busy.

There is time to write. Now. 
Now I am busy. 
Waiting. 

655 days. 15,719 hours. Roughly 943,160 minutes. 
Waiting.

Do you ever feel the end run towards and through you? Tearing this frail body of mine, disappointing me once again. 
It will be over soon. 
It hasn’t been over. 

The things is, I have now realized how easy it is to keep me tied to a string, to make a leash out of these hours I spend standing by. 
Obedient. 
Wait here. Good girl. 
A fit of rage allowed. Try and delete me. 
Here, here. Come back. Good girl. 

Bags of shredded seconds over my head appear: 3 hours.
I make this ticking digestible: divide it into 3 chunks of 60 minutes and then again 9 chunks of 20 minutes. 
Now every block, as a reward I’ll check: will the three grey dots dance in unison? 

1st 20 minutes: I devour time greedily. 
Video after video I focus on the words spoken. I watch sounds bounce over the walls, drop into darkness, light mirrored in my eyes. I am not patient by nature, but I am being now. 

The first one is always the easiest. 

Check: I don’t need it. It’s still early. I will though see because I have been good. I have waited well. Nothing yet. Didn’t expect it though. 

2nd 20 minutes: 
I am confident it will arrive, I have been so good all this time. I will get a reward. I will, I will. 
Do you understand? This leash is not tightened around my neck. 
Yes but, is it killing me? Great question. Sometimes. 
I raise the blankets up to my ears. I gulp sips of water from my bed. I once knew innocence here, in these scorching sheets. I knew my name and its implications, its worth. I once knew right from wrong. 
I once knew love is not earned, but simply felt. 

Check: the three dots do not jump. What will be of me in this night of lost starlight? I am waiting for you. Yes. I am on the leash. There is still time. It will come. 

3rd 20 minutes: 
It’s not hurting me on purpose, the leash. It’s not. I—I promise. You wouldn’t do that. It’s me. Sometimes I pull too hard and—but then it passes right away. 
I am bored, not sure why tears run down my cheeks. It will come. 
It will come. Yes it will!
I stand. In the bathroom study my own image. 
Tell me what you tell your reflection. I said to mine: tonight you have bigger eyes. Wait. It will come.

Check: nothing. It’s been an hour. Only two remain. 

The high wears down easy. 

4, 5 and 6th 20 minutes: 
I jump from a video to the pitch black of my childhood sheets, underneath which I suffocate. I enjoy hiding from this monster: your absence. But you promised presence. 
A dog is loyal to its owner. If it is promised, it will come. Yes. You would not abandon me, not now. After all this time. Never. 
I stack the books on my desk, prepare for your great comeuppance. I enjoy rehearsing conversation, making mental lists of what will be said. I light a candle, dance around it, as if that will bring you closer to me. 
I sit still, exhale these corroding seconds, curl up on the edge of the bed, move up, keep your side warm. 
I will find rest. You will come, right? 

Check: nothing. Check again: it will come. Check again: online. Hope. 

7th 20 minutes: 
Forgive me, for I have been doubting you. I am not sure. Yes, please. 
Sobs murder this muffled silence.
Faith, at length, I struggle with. But yes, you will come. Owners are gods in a way. Gods are to be trusted, to be believed in. I believe in you. You will come, owner of mine. You have not forgotten me. You have not abandoned me.

Check: I am choking on this leash, I run. Come back. I am here. Online.

8th 20 minutes: 
I waited for you. I waited for you. I waited.

We’re done. A god? Mh. A mediocre work of illusion at best.
I did what you told me. I was good. I was good. I WAS GOOD.  
Du calme. 
I wanted you more than anyone. I did everything correctly. I followed your instructions. I was good. I was patient. I was understanding. 
I have never waited so long for something. I have never sat as still as I have for you.
I hide under the sheets, again. 
Where are you? 
I once knew innocence in this bed. I once knew the sound of your voice, the shape of your eyes, your breakfast. 
I once knew love was not pain. 

Screw you. 

I abandon my body. I let my eyes mix these darker shades of black into clammy devils. I allow them, to make a feast of my bowels. 

You won’t come. Am I right? 
It was all a lie. Am I right?

Check: 

It will be over soon. 

9th 20 minutes:
You won’t come. Sobs.
I know now. 
I don’t want to run back even though I love you. I will die if I do, attached to this leash as I am. 
Sobs. 

I think I finally understand.

The leash. Mh. The truth is, the fear of freedom is bigger than that of being stuck forever. 
I guess that’s why I am still here. 
I can leave. I can use my hands and free myself, but what then? Who will I be without this? 
I waited so long, just to stop waiting? Without you?  

One last check: no dots tonight. 
Sobs. 

Curious how this all, I suddenly understand, cannot be love anymore. 
You never loved me. 
All this affection—suddenly thrown, flipped, burnt.

No dots forever. 
I let go of them, their dance, their insignificance. The ownership you had.

What now? 

I shall be released. 

Freedom is as if coming to the light. 

I am afraid, so much so I might die giving birth to this new heart I own. 

I take my collar off.

Sing it everywhere, 
I shall be released. 

Shreds of seconds and this worn leash of mine I say farewell to tonight…

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Love,
Ally

Dear reader, here is the audio version of the piece, just for you! 
Hope you enjoy it!

The blank envelope pierces my sunglasses. 
I sit and breathe the stale air of the post office. 
The lost art of letter sending, practiced only by the veterans. 
I am in this new battle field and stare into nothing, feeling the cellulose penetrate my fingers. 

I do not know who I am now. 
The train of thought leaves, the battle begins: wait. 
I must wait to send. I must sit here until the consequence of my actions will have slipped into a bag of similar white envelopes. 
I—have to wait. 
The train of thought proceeds. 
Mechanically red nails type. I am stabbed by the whiteness of it all; eternal confined apathy in this depressing building.

Where is this going? 
Home, it’s going home. 
A warrior. His war fought.  

When will it be my turn? 

Last year I held another letter. It held no consequences yet, it had no envelope. Front and back, the ink had stained the yellow page. I paced. Read. Reread. I yearned for this same envelope I enclose now. 
Yes. I will send it, I said. I will. I am a volcano exploding with emotion, I have to. I have once chance. 
I slept by the pages three nights, waiting for an answer from some secret messiah. 
Please, I’d beg, just say the word and I’ll do it. 

Do gods ever answer? 

Ghosted by higher forces. Not unusual. 

It has no envelope, still. The yellow letter. I mean.
It said everything. 

Mh. 

I have learnt that existence is about choices after all: accepting life, accepting its end. 
Accepting words falling into oblivion. 
Accepting words flying through pristine one winged sleeves.

This is my battle: hold the weight of your memories. 
These cold steel chairs turn into bedsheets: my room, two in the morning. 
Where do our prayers go? 
Where does our desperate call into infinite emptiness interrupt? 
I let the pen run free along with tears. I—. If we make the choice of taking matters into our own hands, we hold the weight of existence: a choice. 
A familiar song stuck on the same line bounces around this new realm I once again inhabit. I feel my left hand cramp from the sloppy, incessant, urgent writing. I feel my limbs abandoned to their usual tingling, my forehead glistening with sweat from the fever. I feel the back of my ears hurt from the red pompons headband I wear to trick my brain into happiness with sparkles. 
I am forced to RElive this weak body, bent over a desk, write and write and write. 
Time stretches and wraps around my fingers. Fluff of pillows hardens. I still inhale stale air. 

What will the choice be? 
Past or present.
What will the choice be? 
Shall I stand, leave this envelope blank? 
What will the choice be? 
Memories don’t make for a good home, only a decent grave. 
Shall I be buried then? 

Life is about choices after all.  

I feel my arms weaken as I continue with my constant struggle. 

I imagine the face that will be made seeing my handwriting, the smile when reading what I have written. Now, in this present of uncertainty I enclose. 

This card in here, it’s my choice. What does it reveal? What does it say about who I am? 
It says that faced with the smoke wall we call impossibility, decisions are possible. 

I can decide. 

You could too. 

I can decide now. 

I carefully let the pen run along the winged sleeve. 
I write the address, the name, the surname. 
I do what I haven’t done. 
I perceive the thrill of victory. Blood rejoices in my veins, runs as the wild horses do. The battle has been won. 
My number is called. 
I leave the envelope with a burgundy stamp on it. 
Marred heart, full. 

Red nails type, clink, clank. 
Will you make destiny out of this? 

I will. 

Reader, thank you for reading Ally’s Book Nook! Christmas is coming soon! Does nostalgia and doom hit you too?

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Love,
Ally

I have returned! Christmas is coming around, another year is about to go and over this period of silence I have taken the time to think about it all.

Change. It’s inevitable, truly, you can’t out run it.

Oh btw, have you seen Stranger Things? what did you think?

My music taste is ever changing, but over the course of these months it has seen a major shift. I guess loss, love, confusion and reinvention can alter the way we enjoy music. I have been researching niche playlists and discovering new sounds I’d love to share. For this reason I decided to begin a monthly playlist feature (Ally’s mixtape) to feed the curiosity for new music and give space to new sounds (and artists).

Playlist making is an art and a love language. I love generating soundtracks to improbable situations like today’s playlist, creative crash out.

Have you ever had a burst of creativity and a psychotic episode at the same time? It’s an interesting experience that to me sounds like this:

If someone asked me what the inside of my brain sounds like these days, I’d probably share this playlist with them.

The idea behind this mixtape is to merge those contrasting feelings of yearning, rage, love, heartbreak with rock, chaotic sounds.

Crash outs don’t have to be sad all the time, with the right music they can be fun!

It’s also a way of channeling those thoughts into productivity and letting your body speak.

    ⁃    classics like Master of Puppets and Smells like teen spirit;

    ⁃    new sounds like PPLG by this incredible french female band Diabolo Fraiz (keep an eye out for their work);

    ⁃    hits from Hayley Williams’ new album Ego Death at a Bachelorette party

    ⁃    incredible rock from Arcane and Birds of Prey’s soundtrack

You should perceive this playlist as a calling. Love me different, the first song, sets the scene: you’re in your bed, thoughts spinning about the room, will you ever be loved again? Just when darkness is about to engulf you, Supercut begins, it’s time to get up and do something!

All the love we had and lost!

Can you feel it? Dance it out!!

The playlist then branches. You can take the route of rage by listening to Cocktail Molotov, Highway to Hell, Teenagers, Stupid; that of high libido with Guess, Scotty doesn’t know and Diamonds or that of ironic self destruction with Parachute, Renegade and Kill me.

Whichever one you choose escort you through a world of endless possibilities.

If you don’t know where to start I’ll leave here my must listen!

    ⁃    Parachute

    ⁃    Deceptacon

    ⁃    Paint the town blue

    ⁃    Smells like teen spirit (ofc)

    ⁃    Mirtazapine

The grand finale is Ma meilleure ennemmie (my best enemy). The dancing comes to an end by slowing down; you’re good, it’s okay, hear it echo:

je t’aime, je te hais

je t’aime, je te hais

so? which one will be your favorite?

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Love, 
Ally

Hello reader, 
I’m glad to see you here again! Today I’m sharing a poem I wrote. 
Am I the worst person in the world? 
This is the question from which the poem sprouted, and now, here you go! 

You can also find the audio recording right here:

Though you think yourself Fantine or some dark Jedi 

You do not belong to evil anymore 
I’m not trying to buy your soul,
But here I remind you:
A night with no stars is
To mend the open scars.
Go
in peace 
I’m gifting you the light 
I received.

I will not make a 
poem out your conscience, no
but now, 
the labour of abolishment begins.

You are an Omeric epic 
Infinity lives in finiteness—in your 
Pulsing liver, a blood river,
As you live and breathe 

Heartache calls for reinvention, 
This rip of misery won’t allow
You the redemption you pray 
For. How can you know?

No matter how you drill the onyx letter 
Onto your bone,
Place the cavity into this bowl, 
The lung evergreen tears:
Laceration is cosmic alignment.

Forge your own creation myth, 
You are no evil Sith 
Lord, leave Anakin to his red sword. 

Here the bell toll, 
You do not belong to evil anymore. 

Thank you for reading Ally’s Book Nook! If you liked this poem, please consider giving it a like, restack and why not subscribe! I’d love to hear your opinion so don’t forget to leave a comment!

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Till the next time, keep the conversation going…

Love, 
Ally