my body has called a trial against my mind.
and i have been summoned
as the witness.

the defendant:
my thoughts. 

the charges:
unlawful theft of time.

persistent disruption of peace.

and fraudulently advertising
survival as living.

i have witnessed it all.
the late-night interrogations.
the endless questioning.

i have watched my mind
build walls around us
and call them protection.

i have watched my body
stand at the door,
waiting for permission
to leave.

and if i am being honest,
i do not know
which side i am supposed to be on.

because my mind was never trying
to hurt me.
she was trying to save me
by looking ahead,
searching for every possible disaster,
disappointment,
and version of myself
that could fall short.

but somewhere along the way,
preparation became paralysis.
protection became confinement.
and i became a spectator
in my own life.

౨ৎ

i waste so much of my time
thinking about how much time i've wasted
which feels like
a very productive way
to fall apart.

i've unlocked
another level of overthinking.
one where every possibility
is treated like a prophecy,
and every "what if"
is given a seat at the table.

mind clogged with age old questions
what should i be doing?
where should i be going?
who should i be becoming?
rocked to sleep
by the melodies of:
woulda.
coulda.
shoulda.

౨ৎ

the defendant would like to plead innocent, of course.
letting the record show
that she was only doing her job.

your honor,
i'd like it to be known
that i have not been overreacting.
i have been paying attention.

have you seen the state of... everything?
the economy,
which explains the job market,
which explains why entry-level jobs
require five years of experience,
which explains why i still can't afford rent,
or groceries.
i can’t even afford to dream about buying a house
without first locating
a spare kidney
and perhaps a firstborn child.
and while i'm busy
trying to become employable,
people leave.
people lie.
people disappoint you.
parents hand down
their unresolved issues
like family heirlooms,
and suddenly it's my responsibility
to break a cycle
i didn't even start.
respectfully,
i fail to see
how i am the problem.
there is a reason i worry.

and no one disagrees.
as unraveled as she has become,
no one can deny that
the future deserves consideration.

she argues,
this is not anxiety. 
this is preparation. 
this is responsibility.
this is me trying to save us. 
because if i stop worrying,
who will protect us? 
if i stop planning,
who will prepare us? 
if i stop thinking about tomorrow,
what happens when tomorrow comes
and we are not ready?

౨ৎ

my body; the prosecution—
 takes a second to applaud the defendants audacity
assuming she possesses this much control.
because despite years of meticulous planning,
life has continued doing
whatever it wanted;
noting that the defendant has mistaken
constant anticipation
for protection.
as if rehearsing a tragedy
makes it hurt less
when it finally arrives.
or somehow prevents it altogether.

she is not disputing the facts.
the world is hard
often times feeling impossible.

she is disputing the conclusion
that therefore
we must postpone our life.
until we’re healed enough.
wealthy enough.
successful enough.
certain enough.
ready enough.

survival mode is designed for emergencies,
yet we've taken it on as a lifestyle choice.
seemingly believing it is our personal responsibility
to monitor every global catastrophe
at all times.

the witness needs to concern herself
with the things
she can actually influence.

calling a friend.
going for a walk.
creating something.
buying the occasional overpriced beverage.

history remains unchanged.
our Tuesdays improve significantly.

౨ৎ

the defendant rolls her eyes, 
get a load of this guy—
wanting to stroll through the park sipping on something sweet.

will we ever have a career
that feels fulfilling?
one that pays enough
to afford existing
without constantly calculating
what we can and cannot have?

will we create relationships
that survive every version of ourselves,
or will everyone we love
eventually become another lesson
about how temporary everything is?

will we ever feel secure,
or will we always be
one unexpected expense,
one bad decision,
one unfortunate circumstance
away from everything unraveling?

will we make the right choices?

will we waste our potential?

will we be okay?

because the evidence keeps piling up,
and i don't know
how to stop presenting it.

this is what matters.
but yes,
by all means,
let’s buy a $9 iced coffee.
that’s definitely what we should be doing amidst the chaos.

౨ৎ

the prosecution objects.
on the grounds
that the defendant appears
to be dramatically overestimating
the power of a coffee.

respectfully,
the court would like to clarify
that a daily coffee
has never crashed the economy,
prevented a successful career,
or personally sabotaged a lifelong relationship.

yet somehow,
we have decided
this is where the downfall begins.
not the housing market.
not the job market.
not the many things
outside of our control.
the coffee.

the defense appears to be confusing
a small joy
with a lifelong pattern.

missing out on little pleasures
does not make the future arrive any faster.
it only makes the present
less enjoyable.

let the record reflect
that life is happening
while our mind is busy
drafting contingency plans for it.

being present
does not constitute negligence.

enjoying today
is not the same
as abandoning tomorrow.

and while worrying about the future
is perfectly admissible,
waiting to live
until every piece falls into place
is not.

౨ৎ

after reviewing the evidence,
the court has reached a decision.
both parties are guilty.

the mind is guilty
of preparing for a life
she forgot to participate in.

the body is guilty
of waiting so patiently
for certainty that she forgot she was allowed to move.

one built the cage.
the other stayed inside it.

the court recognizes
that neither side
was acting out of cruelty.
they were both afraid.

so the sentence is not punishment.
it is partnership.

the mind may continue
to look ahead.

the body may continue
to feel.

but neither gets
to silence the other.

case closed.

i’m frustrated by the weaponising of healing. there is a difference between honoring yourself and centering yourself in every story. 

self-love is not a free pass to be selfish. 
"protecting your peace" is not an excuse to stop considering the people around you.

if your healing leaves a trail of broken relationships, dismissed feelings, and zero accountability; you haven't evolved.

you've just found prettier words to justify the same toxic patterns.

you're not woke.
you're not healed.
you're just selfish.

౨ৎ 

in what realm does a fairy godmother need a blunt?
probably the one where she’s wasted years
on subjects committed
to misunderstanding her lessons.

you can imagine the look on their faces
when she finally quit.
and could you blame her?

where she suggested boundaries,
they built walls.
the confidence she instilled
slowly turned into arrogance.
standards became superiority.
grace was not shared,
but internalized.
and explanations became excuses.

these were not the lessons
she taught.
but somehow,
these were the lessons
they took.

and shame settles deep
when she looks around
at the mess
she unintentionally helped create.

she never intended
to turn a frog into a prince.
or a villain into a hero.

she only wanted to validate
the beginning of their story—
to acknowledge the wounds,
the battles,
the reasons they became who they were;
and then give them the tools
to become something beyond it.

but somewhere between
lessons of self-love,
healing,
and growth...
they became entitled.

they stopped asking,
“how do I become better?"
and started asking,
“how can everyone else adjust to who I am?"

౨ৎ

she recalls the moments
she realized
her messages had gotten lost
somewhere in translation.

“i don’t owe anyone anything.”
a line spoken so confidently—
so surely.
it stopped her in her tracks.

“but you do…” she replied.
you owe apologies to the people you’ve hurt.
gratitude to those who showed up.
respect to those who respected you.
explanations to those you’ve misled.

not because you are indebted
to everyone who crosses your path.
but because being accountable
is part of being human.

“i’m choosing myself.”
she tilted her head.
“and why, my dear,
did you decide
that required
un-choosing everyone else?”

i gave you forgiveness.
grace.
understanding.
and somehow,
you gathered it all
into your own hands
and refused to share it.
that is not self-love.
that is selfishness.

“i’m protecting my peace.”
a beautiful spell,
when cast correctly.
but where, exactly,
do you draw the line
between honoring your limits
and making everyone else
responsible for your comfort?

“this is just how i am.”
the line that solidified her resignation.
exhausted.
saddened.
almost hopeless,
she looks to her subject.
“if that were true...
if you had no desire
to become anything different...
then why, my dear,
did you come to me
asking for transformation?”

these are not the spells
i gave you.

i taught you
to protect your energy.
but somewhere along the way,
you became the thing
people needed protection from.

i taught you
to be honest.
but you fell in love
with honesty
only when it came
paired with cruelty.

i taught you
to recognize the energy
that hurt you.
but you began matching it.

i taught you
to acknowledge your triggers.
but you turned them
into excuses
for hurting others.

these are not the spells
i gave you.

౨ৎ

before she handed in her wand,
she made one final attempt.
taught one final lesson.
with one final hope
that something would finally land.

people are not abandoning you
because you are impossible to love.
they are leaving
because loving you
started requiring
the abandonment
of themselves.

you think
they are giving up on you.
they have simply run out
of places to stand
without getting hurt.

you wanted someone
who would never leave.
you forgot
they would also need
a reason to stay.

you keep saying,
“look what they did to me.”
and darling,
i am looking.
i am also looking
at what you did
after.

your trauma may explain you.
it does not excuse you.

eventually,
the story changes.

at first,
you were someone
who was hurt.

then,
you became someone
who was hurting.
and baby,
those are not
the same thing.

the first wound
was not your fault.

but every wound
you create afterward
becomes
your responsibility.

i cannot keep
fighting dragons
you insist
on becoming.

so with that,
i resign.

my favorite color is pink,
which feels ironic for someone who grew up
feeling like the black sheep
of her own family.  

i have never felt entirely at home
inside my own skin.
inside my own home—
always searching
for the place where i fit.

screaming,
begging,
and pleading to the sky,
God, please, create someplace I belong.

౨ৎ

i love rom-coms,
musicals,
animated children’s movies—
soft motion pictures that believe
happy endings are still possible.
and i am terrified i will never have one.

i carry abandonment
like a second heartbeat.
a fear carved into me
by every hand that held me
only to let go—
like it was never a loss to begin with.

discarded.
forgotten.
tossed aside
until i began wondering
if i was ever something worth keeping.

౨ৎ 

i have four siblings,
and an anger that lives quietly
somewhere beneath my ribs.
a fire i cannot name.
a storm without a beginning,
a wound without a memory.

౨ৎ

i like to read,
and my self-awareness
is ruining my life.

i know every way i fall short.
every dream i have abandoned.
every piece of potential
i have left untouched.

i am a museum
of things i could have been.

౨ৎ

your hobbies,
and favourite foods,
serve me in no way.

those things are beautiful,
but they are only the fingerprints
of who you are.

i want to know
the moments that left fingerprints
on you.

i have never felt closer to someone
because of the things they consume,
but because of the passion they refuse to let die.
the heartbreaks that rearranged their language.
the fears they learned to disguise as independence.
and the habits they built because surviving required them.

that song you love matters less to me
than the lyric that found you when you were falling apart. 

your favourite book holds less weight
than the sentence that made you feel less alone.

i don't want the summary.
i want the story.

౨ৎ

emotional abstinence
has never been my strong suit.

and i have always envied people
who can hold back,
ration themselves,
and make mystery look effortless.

small talk bores me;
show me your oldest wound.
and while you’re at it,

tell me the story that escapes from your lips
only when you forget
you are supposed to be guarded.

who were you
before the world taught you
to shrink yourself?

what version of yourself
do you apologize for?

what lesson are you afraid
you will never learn?

what part of yourself
are you still trying to forgive?

i am thirsty.
parched with the need
to know the things
you keep hidden.

greedy;
fork in hand
begging you to
feed me your fears.

come closer.
no—
closer than that.

give me the truth
before you make it beautiful.

when was the last time
you cried, and why?

what have you spent years
trying to heal?

what regret still visits you
when the world goes quiet?

i have never cared much
about being inside someone's clothes.

i have always wanted
to be inside their mind—
to know the landscape
of their thoughts.
to memorize the places
they thought were too broken
for anyone to live in.

maybe that is my sin.
maybe i am an emotional slut—
not because i give my body away,
but because i am always asking:
show me your heart.
reveal too much to me, too soon.

i promise
i will handle it gently,
if you promise to do the same with mine. 

i want to put myself in others' shoes.
not to become them,
or disappear into their perspective,
but to experience myself. 

to know the kind of daughter i am,
the kind of sister,
the kind of friend.

we expected flying cars,
and proof of life on mars—
my only hope is to meet the version of me
that exists outside of my own mind.

the one other people know;
the one they remember
and speak about
when i am no longer in the room.

because i have become attuned,
and in some ways blind,
to who i truly am.

i know my heart.
my intentions.
the love i carry
even when i struggle to show it.
but intentions are invisible.

and sometimes i wonder
if the person i am trying to be
supports or contradicts
the person others see.

i need a fresh lens.
one that walks beside me
and notices the moments i overlook.
the pauses in my voice.
the words i choose when i am afraid.
the walls i build when i feel unsafe.

the things i have convinced myself
are just parts of who i am
when maybe they are things
i am meant to heal.

౨ৎ

it’s deeper than being validated,
or told i am right.
i don't need a yes-man.

i want the truth;
to finally answer
the question that has followed me
through every goodbye:
is it me?
am i the problem?

what is it about me
that becomes so easy to leave?
that makes love feel so temporary?
and my presence so forgettable?
as if "please discard" is written in bold ink on my forehead.

that’s what scares me most.
not discovering that i am flawed.
i already know i am.
but discovering a flaw
i have never thought to face.

a blind spot i have protected.
a pattern i have repeated.
a wound i have handed to others
without realizing it was bleeding.

have i played the victim in situations where i was at fault?

maybe there are parts of me
that feel like survival
but look like distance.

that feel like honesty to me
and cruelty to someone else.

what if i have spent so much time
wanting to be understood
that i forgot to ask
if i am worth understanding?

౨ৎ

i place myself on a pedestal.
i love who i am,
who i was,
who i am becoming.
i have fought too hard
to hate myself.

but is the person i love
the same person others struggle to?

have i been staring at my own reflection
for so long
that i have only learned
the angles i want to see?

i want to witness my own soul—
step outside myself
for just a moment;
occupying a front row seat to
watch the way i love.
the way i hurt.
the way i apologize.
the way i withdraw.
the way i make people feel.
conducting a critical analysis in the story of me.

am i a safe place
or just a familiar one?

am i asking people
to hold parts of me
that i refuse to hold myself?

i do not want a comforting answer.
i want an honest one.

i cannot spend my life
defending a version of myself
that no one else can find.

i’m allergic to dander—
those dead skin cells that shed from animals
and onto every piece of clothing you own.

aside from my throat closing up occasionally,
and my body filing a complaint my mind didn’t approve..
oddly—
i find beauty in being allergic to dander.
like ew,
this is old,
outgrown,
has already served it’s purpose—
get it away from me.
i need to make room for what’s next to come.

i wonder what it feels like.
to literally have what no longer serves you fall off so naturally.
not bound by the fear of letting go. 
just pure acceptance and readiness to welcome a new coat. 

౨ৎ

it’s inconvenient, really.
especially working on a farm—
but i can’t help it,
i love animals.
and the pharmacy that supplies my allergy meds
loves me—
and the comforting notion that i'll always be a customer.

there’s a lesson i’ve learned—
written in the fine print of my prescription.

when it comes to allergies,
you don’t bargain with them.
the reaction is immediate—
a firm, physical no. 
it’s instinct. 

my body doesn’t negotiate with what no longer belongs here.
it responds like it already knows the ending of the story before my mind has time to rewrite it.

it’s not a graceful release, a slow letting go with music and meaning attached—
it’s a sneeze. an itch. a tightening throat.
small, uncomfortable signs that remind me of the inability to stay in contact with what my body has already decided to reject.

౨ৎ

i used to think “outgrowing” something had to be sad.
something you archive properly so it doesn’t feel like loss.
but my body has taught me something through this inconvenient allergy. 

animals shed without narrative.
my body sneezes without permission—
a loud refusal to make space for what’s already hit capacity.

humans complicate the idea of growth so much.
we build entire philosophies around staying attached to things we’ve already surpassed.

we call it loyalty. we call it history. we call it love.
but sometimes it’s just resistance to a system that already decided.

growth isn’t something that needs to be delayed,
over thought,
or romanticised.
it’s just something that needs to happen.

imagine life if letting go was as involuntary as shedding fur?

౨ৎ

i should be more embarrassed to admit that i wish i was a goat—

not in a metaphorical, “free spirit, wander the hills” kind of way—
but in a very literal, sun-warmed, grass-chewing, no-inner-monologue kind of way.

just a body in a field.
not overcome with doubts, 
and stipulations,
and what-ifs,
and a little bit of this,
and a little bit of that.

i was born to graze, 
but forced to reflect.

౨ৎ

goats don’t spend time negotiating with themselves.
they don’t pause mid-step to wonder if they’re evolving correctly.
they don’t romanticize the idea of change—they just participate in it.

when the weather shifts, they don’t resist it.
when the ground changes, they don’t overanalyze it.
they adjust, instinctively, like it was never a question in the first place.

no dragging the past behind them like proof of something.
just forward motion that doesn’t announce itself.

and that’s what i envy most—
their lack of delay.

because humans turn everything into a decision.
becoming.
letting go.
even the quiet, obvious moments where something inside us has already moved on.

we stall in the space between knowing and doing,
as if hesitation is a form of safety instead of a form of staying stuck.

goats don’t do that.

transformation isn’t a project to them,
it’s a reflex.

౨ৎ

i never thought there’d be a day where i try and convince people to be more like goats…
but here i am.

not because they’ve unlocked some higher truth we haven’t,
but because they seem to have missed the memo that everything has to be a crisis before it can be a change.

they got lucky in that department.
not having to be burdened by the human nature to complicate everything. 

if there’s anything i’ve learned—
from allergies, from fur, from goats,
it’s that growth isn’t supposed to feel like a decision
as much as a bodily knowing.

like a sneeze.
and a shedding coat.

a sense of urgency has taken up residence in me.
housewarming party coming soon.

they're almost done fully furnishing the place;
residing in the most inconvenient part of me—
my lungs.

whenever i try to slow down,
take a second to breathe,
muttering repeatedly:

you're fine.
you have time.

here comes that damned urgency—
i'm late.
i'm late.
speaking in a tone that mistakes stillness for danger.

౨ৎ

i knew the White Rabbit.
the "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!
No time to say hello, goodbye,
I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"
rabbit.

urgency lived in him
before it lived in me.

somewhere along the way,
i stopped experiencing time
and started monitoring it.

measuring my life in countdowns.
in due dates.
in arbitrary finish lines
that move the moment i reach them.

i don't live my life anymore.
i time it.
and in turn,
i’m unfulfilled
and unsatisfied.

always chanting,
i'm late.
i'm late.
not to work.
not to an event.
not even to something tangible.
just late.

perpetually,
inexplicably,
devastatingly late.

late to success.
late to healing.
late to becoming whoever i thought i'd be by now.

and late according to whom?
a timeline i drafted in adolescence?
a version of myself
who had never paid a bill,
buried a dream,
or been discouraged? 

౨ৎ

they say anxiety is the gateway drug.
urgency is the vine that grows from it,
wrapping around your ribs
until even breathing feels behind schedule.

anxiety handed me a pocket watch
and convinced me it was a compass to where i should be—
then rearranged the clocks,
and blamed me for being lost.

ignited the irrational belief that
i'm late.
i'm late.
i'm late.
so i run.
and run.
and run.

strange,
how i keep moving
yet remain in the same place.

how each step forward,
is really a step nowhere
because anxiety hasn’t named a destination,
it just demands that i move.

so down the rabbit hole i go.

౨ৎ

tick.
tick.
tick.

for years,
this sound acted as a warning i blindly followed,
and translated wrong—
shouldn’t have translated at all.

hurry.
faster.
you're running out of time.
i was so wrong.

i’m learning,
that time never cared—
if i'm tired.
if i'm grieving.
if i'm healing.
if i'm trying my best.

it keeps ticking all the same.

and it was my subconscious mind instilling the fear that i’m behind,
not doing enough,
late—
easily tricked by social media
and the consumption of what i think a good life looks like.

comparison will be the nail in my coffin.
i’ve always known that.

౨ৎ

time has never once asked me
to sacrifice joy.
to rush through dinner.
to turn rest into guilt.
to spend every quiet moment
wondering if i should be doing more.

i've been doing that on its behalf.
because i feel shame that i haven’t been able to live up to a non-existent timeline. 
because i feel that i should’ve been more by now.

i’m in a rush to be everything,
all at once.
so that not another day has to pass 
with this impending doom that i’ll live a life that amounts to nothing.
and die a girl who ran,
but not fast enough to find the destination. 

i choose to chase a horizon that moves each time i get closer.

then i blame the white rabbit.
i shudder at his clock,
and i twist the ticking into words that invalidate my life.

but a clock cannot distinguish
a life-changing moment
from an ordinary Tuesday.

the same ticking accompanies heartbreak
as it does healing.

the same ticking follows failure
as it does success.

time, after all,
is indifferent.

i’m late,
is my chant.

౨ৎ

i've spent so long racing towards "later"
that i've forgotten to ask what waits for me there.

what if later really is just another Tuesday?
and i've spent years sacrificing my Mondays,
Wednesdays,
and Thursdays
chasing it—
or maybe i'm running away,
from a life i've convinced myself is suffocating.

the present sits beside me,
surrounded by milestones i barely celebrated,
dreams i quietly crossed off the list,
and versions of myself i worked so hard to become.

all of them waiting to be acknowledged.

all of them overlooked
while i searched the horizon for something better.

there's sadness in constantly chasing the next chapter.
you never get to read the one you're in.

i keep treating my life
like a rough draft of itself,
never realizing how much of it
has already been worth keeping.

sometimes i wonder
how many versions of myself
have been left waiting for recognition.

how many beautiful, ordinary days
i convinced myself were merely just the beginning
of something more important.

so here i lie,
standing in the middle of a life i once wished for,
wondering why it still doesn't feel like enough.

urgency has a funny way of making today
feel like an obstacle.
a waiting room.
something to endure
until real life finally begins.

"later" speaks to me like a wonderland.
as though fulfillment has been sitting there patiently,
waiting for me to catch up.

i'm late.
i'm late.
and so tired.
overwhelmed with a fatigue
that no amount of rest can cure.

my frantic
has turned into exhaustion.

turns out,
even the White Rabbit gets tired.

and maybe that's why i'm learning,
or forcing myself—
to sit still.

to stop checking the watch.
to stop treating every breath
like borrowed time.

to arrive; to today. 

౨ৎ

urgency has made itself at home in my lungs.

the furniture is assembled.
the boxes are unpacked.

such a shame,
to be evicted so soon. 

i live in Atlanta—
or 15 minutes from Atlanta,
if you care about geography.

i’ve lived here 23 years,
and yet somehow
i feel i haven’t lived here at all.

with the 24/7 traffic,
it’s safe to say Atlanta is a busy, popular city.
and i get why.
the opportunity here is insane—
or so i’ve heard.

i say “heard” because sometimes it feels like i’ve spent years reading the menu instead of ordering.
everyone talks about Atlanta like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of possibility,
and i’ve mostly been standing off to the side deciding if i’m hungry enough to deal with the crowd.

౨ৎ

being introverted in a city that never really stops talking has been… a process.
it’s not that i don’t want to go out and experience life,
i do.
i just spend a long time negotiating with myself before i walk out the door.

the public is overstimulating. 
every sound feels louder than it should.
every conversation feels like it requires math i didn’t study for.
every group feels like it already started without me.

so i'm there,
trying to find the rhythm of something that’s already moving.

i don’t ease into rooms.
i enter them like i’m borrowing space temporarily—
rehearsing sentences in my head that never arrive in time.

everyone seems to know how to become part of a room instantly.
i’m still figuring out where i’m supposed to stand.

maybe that’s what makes the city so intimidating.

everywhere i look,
people are taking up space.

artists.
musicians.
entrepreneurs.
creatives.

introducing themselves.
sharing their work.
being visible.

and i’m reminded that i’ve spent years carrying so much inside me;
mastering the art of being a wallflower.

౨ৎ

i don’t like calling myself shy.
my preferred word is “selective.”
it sounds more intentional that way.

but the truth is,
it’s hard for me to connect.
hard for me to find places where i feel like i belong.
and because of that,
i’ve spent a long time wondering if there is a place i actually do.

like,
maybe i’m too small for the city.

which is the contradiction of it all,
because everything in me is loud—just not in a way people can hear.

i have enough ideas to keep me awake at night,
enough dreams to fill entire notebooks,
enough ambition to feel like i’m constantly on the edge of becoming something.

but when it’s time to let it out,
everything gets quieter than it should.

i'm jealous of people who aren't afraid to be loud.
loud in expression,
loud in creativity,
loud in the way they exist without asking permission.

and that’s what unsettles me most—
not that they are loud,
but that i know i could be too.
that i should be.

౨ৎ

i do yearn for a quiet life.
and i mean quiet in the most literal way.

small community instead of constant crowds.
fewer buildings, more sky.

a place where you don’t need to plan your entire day around traffic or timing or being perceived.

somewhere mornings just begin—
not rush into you.
and everything else is optional, not demanded.

a life that doesn’t require a high expense to participate in.
or energy you don’t always have to give.

just space.
and stillness.
and time that moves like it isn’t trying to get somewhere else.

somewhere slower.
somewhere where nothing feels like it’s asking me to perform.
somewhere i can exist without constantly negotiating my place in it.

but i can’t run there yet.
because the city still feels like it has something it’s asking of me.

not loudly.
not urgently.
but persistently.

౨ৎ

there are still things here i haven’t done.
rooms i haven’t entered.
versions of myself i haven’t met in real time.

and i think if i left too early,
i would spend the rest of my life wondering what I avoided instead of what I built.

so i stay.

not always comfortably.
not always confidently.
but present enough to keep the door from fully closing.

i cannot disappear before i leave a mark.
before i make an impact.
before i do something worth remembering.

and i am lucky to live in a place that makes that possible.
as overwhelming as it can feel,
the city is still a kind of blessing—
a vessel of opportunity.

and i don’t think it’s done with me yet.

because beneath all the noise,
all the traffic,
all the overstimulation—

it keeps holding doors open for me.
even when i don’t walk through them.
even when i turn the other way out of fear,
or convince myself i don’t belong on the other side.

there are still entire corners of this city i’ve only ever heard about through other people’s stories;
opportunities i’ve admired from a distance instead of reaching for.

i don’t think the city is waiting for me to become louder.
i think it’s just waiting for me to show up.

to enter.
to stay.
to believe, 
even briefly, 
that i belong in the room i’m already standing in.

because even being there;
quietly, uncertainly—
still counts as being seen.

it has to start somewhere.

౨ৎ

i know the highways better than the neighborhoods.
the traffic better than the culture.
the reputation better than the experience.

i can tell you which roads to avoid at rush hour,
which exits back up,
which shortcuts shave ten minutes off your commute.

but i couldn’t tell you where i belong in this city.

somehow i’ve become an expert in navigating Atlanta
without ever fully participating in it.

maybe that’s why the traffic frustrates me so much.

every day,
i’m surrounded by hundreds of people merging,
accelerating,
changing lanes,
trying to get somewhere.

for years,
all i saw were obstacles.
delays.
reasons to stay home.

but traffic only exists because people are going somewhere.
because there’s something worth leaving home for.
something worth sitting in brake lights for.

i'm starting to think that’s what Atlanta has been trying to tell me all along.
that the things i’m looking for,
the spaces i'm itching to take up,
are on the other side of rush hour.

every day it becomes more and more evident—
i need a marketing assistant.
someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by hashtags,
and metrics,
and trends.

it’s already demanding enough to turn my vulnerability into a cohesive, inspiring piece;
something that might change the trajectory of someone else's life.
but now i have to beg you on my hands and knees to read it, too?
cheers, to the second job hidden in the fine print of being a creator.

when did a trending audio dictate my success?

౨ৎ

i know the importance of building a community,
putting yourself out there,
and growing a brand.
my understanding helps nothing.

i’m no good at social media.
i never have been.
i’m always sat on the brink of deactivation and deletion—
awaiting my life off the grid;
unable to be perceived. 

i can curate a lovely dump of beach pics.
the world will know when my hair is done,
and don’t let me and my girls be out on the town—
i become iCarly.

but when it comes to promoting my work?
oh, brother.

hey, hey, look at me!
i posted!
read it!
please!
and while you're at it, share it!

my current social media following doesn’t really care that i’m transcending the writing game.
most of my support comes from strangers on the internet.
which is why i need more spaces like this—
to connect with people who get it.

sometimes i think the algorithm hates me;
like it’s purposefully keeping me in this quiet corner of the internet
while i yearn for just a crumb of exposure.
but the truth is—
i hate the algorithm.
or maybe i just haven’t taken the time to learn it.

౨ৎ

visibility is so important as a creative.
i’m past the point of basing my worth on external validation.
i’ve written some pretty damn good pieces.
so it’s not really as much about external validation as it is about just being seen.

i put an embarrassing amount of time and intention into everything i create.
i’m good at what i do.
there’s no question there—
not anymore, at least.

i’d be lying,
and a little inhumane,
if i said i never doubted myself.
truthfully,
i’ve spent more years doubting than embracing.
i pour my heart out for two likes and a lost follower.
how rewarding.

i’ve fully leaned into this niche underground poetry princess thing. patent pending
my work reaches who it’s meant to reach,
and i’ve started seeing the value in quality over quantity.
still,
social media has become one giant numbers game.
one i keep losing.
and my writer’s heart wilts a little when yet another piece falls through the cracks.
is gaslighting a good marketing strategy?
because that’s where i’m at right now—
manipulating people into thinking i'm their favourite writer! 

౨ৎ

trapped in my little corner of the internet,
i can’t help but to ask:
does my social media presence make me an artist?

i recently reached 60 subscribers on here.
that’s 60 people who decided my work was worth reading.
sixty.
that’s a lot.

i’m incredibly grateful.
so does it make me greedy,
or just human,
to want more?

i’ve watched others get praised and paid for less.
and i don’t say that out of petty jealousy.

all it takes is one viral video to be put on the map—
being noticed opens door that being hidden doesn’t budge.
so i don’t correlate my low follower count with my worth,
i base it on this damned algorithm i cannot seem to hack into.

i do try.
i swear i do.
but sometimes i feel like a circus animal performing for a treat—
better explained in a previous post: clap for the clown.

i know.
consistency.
consistency.
consistency.
but wow, is it exhausting.
especially when you're not seeing much growth.

i'm impatient with an attention span the size of a grape;
i'm not built for this.
let me write my silly little poems,
short stories,
and think pieces.
let me be a writer,
marketing sucks!!!

i want to create,
not convince people that i’m a creator.

౨ৎ

long story short, (and against my best wishes)
you have to put yourself out there.
you have to submit to the algorithm,
at least to some extent.

your people will find you, 
but how will they find you if you’re not allowing yourself to be seen?

i repeat this mantra in my head every time i press upload on yet another promotional attempt to blow up.

౨ৎ

maybe this post is a cry for help.

APPLICATIONS OPEN:
HIRING A MARKETING ASSISTANT IMMEDIATELY.
to take my work farther than i can carry it. 

or maybe this is just a public complaint about the algorithm disguised as self-reflection.

i’m not evolved enough to pretend i don’t care about likes,
shares,
followers,
or subscribers.
because i do.

like i said,
visibility matters.
and i’m proud of what i make.
is it really a crime to want other people to feel that way too?

i create because i want to make an impact.
that was always the goal.
leave my mark,
make a difference,
use my craft for good.
i just wish i didn’t have to work so hard to convince others that i'm worth slowing down and paying attention to.
or—
that someone else could do the convincing for me.

with that being said,
who wants to help me sweet-talk the algorithm?

Anything said and done in the quiet is bold— magnified. 
It screams at you, demanding to be acknowledged.
Forcing you to sit face to face with things long buried.

That’s why I prefer noise. 
You can hide behind it, use it as a distraction… an excuse.

I welcome noise and reject silence.
I feign for motion in stillness and relapse when things go mute. 

It’s a thin line… 
One I’ve learned to navigate just enough so I don’t fall off completely.
It sounds as exhausting as it is— 
always coasting between healing and avoidance;
Suppression and acceptance. 
Eventually it blurs and you’re left wondering if you’re as okay as you present yourself to be. 

౨ৎ

Its funny how silence makes everything louder. 
In a quiet room, 
it makes me uncomfortable.

Sitting with your own thoughts is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.
To invite in, not lock out; listen, rather than avoid.
It’s overwhelming; suffocating, even.
That rush of emotions flowing— no, crashing through.

Because somewhere along the way,
you found peace in a distraction that was only meant to be temporary.
Foolishly believing that you could outrun yourself…
Like theres a shortcut to healing; a hidden cheatcode to being better.

౨ৎ

Noise is my coping mechanism.
Time is my scapegoat.
Because they say time heals.
They say each day that passes will get easier; lighter.

And so I believe that everyday I wake up and live this life, I am okay—
That the answer to all my problems is simply having the patience to wait it out.
Lord knows how much of a battle that can be.

But time hasn’t healed me, it’s confused me.
I’ve “I’m fine”’d my way into delusion—
Convinced myself that as long as I keep moving, 
as long as I don’t stand too still,
one day these lies I tell myself will be the truth. 

I wish I could outrun myself.
So much time I’ve wasted trying.

౨ৎ

It becomes evident at night— 
The nocturnal thoughts creep in; the ones that respect your busy schedule enough to stay hidden before sunset.
They don’t mind. 
The longer I suppress, the stronger they get.

So they wait on standby, itching to make their mark.
Watching me climb into bed, melt into the sheets— Get set.
Close my eyes, completely submitting to the relief of a hard days work.
Another successful day of avoiding. 
Another medal earned in the game of pretending. 
I’ll need my rest to do it all again tomorrow.
Go. 
The thoughts rejoice.
All at once.
No mercy.

౨ৎ

As it turns out...
time isn’t a reliable source,
and noise is deceiving. 

But I confess…
That although it hurt like hell,
Comparable to being jumped— 
It didn’t suffocate me. 
It grounded me; guided me to the answers that lied in the chaos.

The silence said more than the noise ever could’ve.
So I sat in it— there was no use in fighting it.
Resistance proved to be no friend of mine. 

I quieted the sirens, the bells, the bahumbug...
braced for impact, clenched my fists, and held my breath.
I dropped the facade and decided to get real. 
Because pretending was just as exhausting as facing—
Facing the truth, existing in reality. 
Drawing the curtain on a false fantasy.

Storing my problems in the back of my head and praying they find the exit isn't my proudest plan.
It was the easy plan—
or so I thought; hoped.

But true healing is born from what we face, not what we avoid.
And growth doesn't happen while you're waiting for the starting gun,
it happens when you finally decide to go.

You can't win a race you refuse to run.

you know what they say about poets, right?
you’re forever at risk of becoming literature.
what wounds them, becomes immortal.
and what breaks them, becomes them—
tragically.

held up by a spine of resilience—
bent, but not broken.
and a jaw strong enough to restrain things they didn’t say,
but should’ve.

tongue bruised against the teeth;
held hostage between enamel and muscle. 
throat sore from swallowed grief—
dried out from holding the scream in their mouth
so the pen can drag it out slowly; 
painfully.

heart enlarged—
of course.
but a poets heart acts as more of an archive
than an organ.
you see,
it’s over-worked from over-feeling;
storing evidence of the damage longer than necessary
because the wound must stay open long enough to study it.

and the brain doesn’t understand the concept of letting go—
merely a hoard of small betrayals,
subtle dismissals,
and moments that changed everything;
and nothing at all.
documented.
used as source material.

the stomach—
queasy.
rage simmers here,
because a poet does not explode; they digest...
and in turn are filled with the nausea of injustice.
metabolizing betrayal
so the metaphors become merciless.

the hands—
that turn mishaps into meaning,
heartbreak into publication,
“almost” into art...
are bruised from the heat that settles in their palms;
stained from the impulse that turned to ink.
they preserve the ashes from the bridges you burn.
wound them, and you’ll be named the injury.

ludicrous—
is the one who thinks they can leave unchanged;
who underestimates the power of poetry.

tread lightly, 
you will become a lesson before you become a memory.

there’s an ache that’s born
inside somebody cursed with the need 
to understand.

it starts small,
subtle asks of “why”
and promises of no judgement—
developed into something bigger;
a begging that sits right on the border of desperation.

this ache lived in me,
lives in me,
and i worry it’s only growing stronger. 

౨ৎ

have you heard the tale? 
the one where the surgeon went mad,
overridden by his obsession to see others point of view?

you stand before him
and he hungers.
not for you,
for what lives beneath you.

it started innocent—
as innocent as it could possibly be.
peeling you open gently; like a secret.
praying for a divine x-ray
to illuminate the fracture and
assess where the ache was born,
where it festers,
and where it refuses to die.

to see it—
the hurt nested in your chest,
the rot threading through your thoughts.

maybe then
he could cauterize it,
stop the slow hemorrhage
you call living—
the one that keeps spilling into others.

eventually,
that innocence warped.
his control disguised as compassion—
no his compassion turned into control. 
once curious, now insane.

he wondered about you,
now he studies you
like something unwell.

because even as you whisper,
it’s nothing,
i’m fine,
he can feel the lie breathing.
so he goes deeper.
he has to.

deeper—
where something ugly explains
the ease of your deceit,
the absence of remorse,
the way you hold feeling
like a fragile thing
you’re free to break.

somewhere beneath—
an answer;
is it cruelty,
or just emptiness?
somewhere beneath—
a logic that makes your pain
permission to wound others.

he is parched with it;
this need to know.
questions crack in his mouth,
dry and relentless.

so he became the doctor
your silence demands.

he lays you out,
not gently now—
and cuts.

not to save you,
but to survive you.
not to heal,
but to claim.

because if he cannot understand,
something in him turns...
slow, certain—
mad.

and it's only a matter of time
before this unhealthy desire
tears him apart too.

౨ৎ

so i beg you,
on the border of desperation;
invite me in,
i'm tired of prying.

curiosity killed the cat,
and i fear it's on it's way to me.

I work 3 jobs— 
jobs that I actually love despite it being… a job; labor. 

And overtime, 
I’ve mastered the whole work/life balance. 
To an extent, at least.

It’s natural;
to be exhausted, feel burnt out, stretched thin. 
And it’s easy;
to feel stuck, motionless, and lost.
After all, lack of balance results in consumption. 

౨ৎ

To be consumed by the 9-5… 
It’s a haunting loop; work, sleep, repeat.
Work, sleep, repeat.

Somewhere inbetween you fall through the cracks,
romanticising a life that could be, that should be.
If only… 
money didn’t rule everything around me,
if wanting outlawed funding,
and even the smallest pleasures didn’t come at a heavy cost.

Cursed, 
it feels like sometimes.
To want more.

I have so much creative energy gnawing at me to be released,
Yet I treat these powerful passions as second-hand back burners because they lack profit.
And in exchange,
am drained by what doesn’t ignite me because they do.

I’ve accepted defeat… many times.
It is what it is; a refusal to resist.
Because what else am I to do?
This passion can’t pay the bills— yet, at least.
It’d be an investment.
One that requires patience; discipline. 
And how much time do I have to waste—

To waste?
Passion isn’t something that fades; something that backs down without a fight.
Its heavy, persistent, loud, demanding.
But oh so rewarding. 
Oh so fulfilling.

We’ve all heard the saying, “you make time for the things you care about.”
You don’t dim what burns bright.
You don’t ignore what calls you.
You don’t suppress the need to want more,
because of the silly ordeal that it’ll be a waste.

౨ৎ

Truth or dare…

Truth? 
We are not always put in positions to succeed.
Most things aren’t easy,
and following your dreams is more of a nightmare at first.

Tainted with rejection, self-doubt, impatience, hopelessness.
Presented side by side with that damned imposter syndrome. 
While also juggling the reality of a life you lead that negates all passion, all creativity,
so you can afford to live. 

It’s a process that can be just as draining as the 9-5.
And a process that many don’t have the strength to see through.
It’s tough— it has to be.

But truth…
It’s possible.
To want more, 
and get more.

So I dare you..
To get more.
To have the audacity to be so rooted in your craft that it becomes borderline delusional.

Choose passion over practicality in a world that requires your first born as a deposit on a home.
Stop romanticising and start doing.
Ambition without action breeds anxiety.

I double dog dare you,
To exist outside of the 9-5.
Because everything is temporary.
We do what we gotta do; trapped in survival mode.
But it can be temporary.
You can be the exception.

It has been done before,
It will be done many times after.
Why can't it be by you?
Why can't it be by me? 

౨ৎ

That 5-9 after the 9-5… 
It’s liberating. 
It’s where you shed the skin of labor and expose what’s underneath.
That raw, naked, vulnerability of being a creator. 
The threat to exist outside of the norm.
The reminder that you are more than labor.

I confess…
That I live a double life stationed right between corporate and creativity.
I show up to my craft like I’m getting paid, 
A mute manifestation of what could be.
I challenge the idea that money rules everything.
Because what am I without my individuality; who am I if I don’t express?
Where will I end up if I don’t have the audacity to try—
If I don’t dare to be more.

You wouldn’t be able to tell..
as I sit at the front desk; making calls, answering emails, 
sweeping, dusting, mopping.
That outside of those walls, 
This double life I lead is invisible to the naked eye.

Not as noticeable as ripping off a wig that reveals my secret identity,
but as noble as accepting the many parts that I am,
while growing into who I wish to become. 

Life’s what you make it,
and I have finally found the strength to be bold—
the courage to dream, 
and the nerve to make it happen. 

I triple dog dare you,
to do the same. 

i feel like a filler episode.
and don’t get me wrong,
i love a good filler episode:
the pause between plot twists,
a narrative waiting room—
inviting the audience to sink into their seats, 
after sitting on the edge. 

but i fear a filler episode is all i am.
no major plotlines or characters arcs;
just a character employed by a show that had so much potential—
but ultimately gets cancelled after season 1 due to lack of plot.

and hey,
i don’t mean to complain about this life of dilly-dallying i lead.
but, 
what is a character when there is no crisis to define them?
—who edges the backstory but never reveals.

if there is no intensity surrounding me, is that peace or stagnation?

stakes make the story.
no confrontation, no climax. 

౨ৎ

my risk factor is low.
and by low, i mean i don’t take them. 
if you don’t put yourself in a position to lose, you’re always winning…
right?
wrong—
i confess,
that i am scared to believe in the potential of who i could be,
and what i could accomplish,
because in order to fly,
i must fall without the expectation of being caught.
and ouch,
how many scars will i collect
before i am something worthy of a season finale?
something beyond the laugh tracks and commercial breaks. 

i want the wings without the turbulence. 

౨ৎ

i’m annoyed by the comfort i feel…
with beautiful cinematography and no narrative spine.
a steady camera with nothing to chase.
what a boring main character,
the audience must think—
filled with both pity and confusion,
having never seen someone be a background character in their own story.
reeking of second hand embarrassment.

the audience has grown complacent in their seats,
because there’s no reason to lean forward with anticipation.
there is nothing happening—
nothing worth watching.
and like the audience,
i’ve grown complacent as well.
settled comfortably in a box i refuse to admit i’ve outgrown—
cramped, convincing myself this is enough for me. 
comfortably seated in my discomfort. 

comfortable—
autoplaying into irrelevance,
as a protagonist with no catalyst.

i chose to be safe instead of seen—
traded in plot for being palatable.

oh, no.
cut the laugh tracks; 
there’s nothing comedic about shrinking;
nothing witty about dilution.

this isn’t poetic,
it’s sad. 

a marionette—
that’s what he believes me to be.
an inatimate object.
a pretty puppet up for grabs.
easy to controll,
constrict,
and conform. 
to his liking,
at his will. 

he presents himself well,
as they all do.
afterall, a good performance
results in a great appearance.
i fell for it too.

not many have the privelege of going behind the curtain
where the strings and levers are exposed.
and the marionette
isn’t as pretty as she was presented.
she’s quite mad, actually.
and the puppeteer is to blame.

౨ৎ

he doesn’t like when i challenge him.
when i threaten to pull at the strings he’s carefully crafted,
and go against the script that he’s written—
refusing to be gaslit into delusion.

he wants me to submit.
to be burderned with the thought that i’ll never be enough if i demand more.
he invalidates me in the name of love,
and grows angry when i name it disrespect.
he punishes me for existing outside the lines he drew. 

he twists my words in the same way he twists my strings—
carelessly, recklessly.
and he meets me with backlash when i beg for empathy;
so full of apologies that lack accountability.

he places me with this tired narrative
of being too much,
too sensitive, 
over dramatic.
like he’s apalled that i dare to have a mind of my own—
never before has he seen a puppet with a backbone.

he took advantage of my gentle nature,
confusing it for an oppurtunity to use me.

i confess,
that no punishment is worse than choosing to appease him.
so,
i chose rebellion,
i chose to question,
i chose to push back.
refused to comply.

because how bold of you,
to tell me how i feel,
dictate what i deserve,
manipulate what i know,
assign me with a narrative that aids your performance,
and makes me the villain.

౨ৎ

he hated what his actions made me become.
no longer a pretty puppet, but a mad marionette.
he was a man of power—
i’m to blame for that.
i invited him to be a part in my play,
not knowing that he would take over behind my back. 

he was a sick man.
and he used his power
to punish me in a way he saw most fitting—
most belittling,
most permanent.

he sewed my mouth shut.

he took away my voice because he didn’t like the things i had to say.
silenced—
because i refused to exist in a norm even he deluded himself into believing was right.
my words became the weight that pinned my lips, 
for he could not bear their truth.

and even after all this,
i still believe without a doubt,
that there truly is no worse punishment
than appeasing him. 

yes,
he took away my voice.
but my silence wasn’t what he wanted.
not truly.
he wanted surrender—
of the part of me that knows who i am,
and what i deserve.

what he truly sought out,
was the pleasure of
holding my dignity in the palm of his hands,
thinning my resilience,
and breaking my will.
but he couldn’t. 
his punishment was his defeat.
not mine.

he can pull my strings—
constrict me,
conform me.
to his liking,
at his will.

bruise me, bind me,
but never break me.
his punishment restricted me,
but it didn’t shatter me.
he carved flesh,
not spirit.
his punishment was his defeat,
not mine.

my silence is a representation of the one thing he will never be able to take—
the one thing he truly desired,
the one thing i will never give up.
my self-respect.
a reminder that he will never hold my mind captive.