She walks with such discretion,
as though she could delete you
from the surface of this earth
without a second thought.

You do not hear her voice,
only her cries.

When she walks past,
the air smells of old cinnamon
and burnt cherries,
lingering from the fires
of rituals long forgotten.

She comes only
when the moon turns red.

Shadows in her mind
follow her,
but her presence lingers
like thin blood
on an early soul
that has already left its prey.

Her hands have not aged.
They remain young,
untouched by time,
while her mind and soul
are ancient.

Her face does not show,
but only for the righteous.

Thou follow,
art thou shall receive.

She gives you what you want
in return for what is hers.

And what is hers
is not your life.

It is..

Your heart.

A little girl looks at herself in the mirror.

She doesn’t see herself. She doesn’t see a ghost. She sees another girl.

Her skin, a perfectly milk shade. Her hair, straight, not a single curl, and a smile that could light up your whole world.

When she steps away from the mirror, she takes a look at her skin. Her mixed-race skin. She was born with a mix of Italy and Africa in her genes, but she doesn’t fit with either of them. She’s not close to her parents. They did this to her, not the other way around, and she wears her smile as a sort of frown.

Every time she bathes herself, she scrapes her skin, hoping it will all go away. All the hate, all the colour, everything, until nothing is left of her.

She wants to disappear from the world and wants to stay.

She wants to get a hug and be told everything is okay. She wants to be seen through other people of her colour, but all she sees is white.

Then maybe everything will be alright.

Maybe she will finally accept her colour, not because she’s insecure, but because she’s forever crying on the floor, hoping maybe one day she won’t look at herself in fear, but as someone who is very dear.

She doesn’t always look at herself and wish she were someone else. There are days when she looks in the mirror and sees herself, completely and entirely. But there is still a small part of her that wishes she could be like Barbie, with the perfect milk skin, straight hair and a smile that could light up the whole world.

Maybe one day, that little girl will stop wishing she had been born differently.

That’s what she always said.

Maybe one day.

But when will that day ever come?

The snow is peril in ice crystals like the Sun. The snow, foot deep in depth, like the books of my hearts.

The mountain at the eclipse of the eastern parts of Europe. Pomegranates spilled like blood on the ice cold snow. Drips down like a vein is carried from many years.

The plain silence, crisp noise of the Eagles, piercing their voice into our skin.

We dance surrounded by lace and inverted pattern fabrics. It’s our ritual. It’s our life. It’s our being.

The mountains stay lit till darkness falls. The darkness doesn’t fall on our heart.

Bury me not in the snow, but in the mountain where I belong. I was created by the Sun, by the moon, by the Earth, by water, but I shall perish by the ashes that do not longer fawker.

Take the pomegranates and place it beneath my body. Desecrate me. Deepen me, but do not smallen me.

Hear the pipes play that whistle in your ear, till I rise again.

𓂀 ────────────── 𓂀

Vita Sepulta

Don’t worship me like any God, because we are our own Gods in this world of mysteries and abandonment.

Look at me in favour, but don’t look at me at all, because once you’ve reached the eyes of the unfavoured, you see the darkness it holds.

Look at my hands with depth. Do you see the lines? Those are stories from my ancestors. They have told no lies.

You have heard false truths about the unsecured of my heart, but have you heard of the fruits that I carried, the birth of a child that was never born, never meant to be, but forever adorned?

Do you take me for granted? We are chosen on this earth for such a charities and abundance.

Look at me. I’m your riches. I’m your favourite of all.

Every time you drink from thy cup, you’re drinking me. Don’t drop a single sip, for thou will be punished.

There’s a place I think of a lot.

The sky is different. The air is different. The people are different. And more importantly, life is different.

When you step there, it’s like you enter a portal. You walk in and open the door, and you see the plants are alive, the animals are free, and no one is shouting at you.

You reclaim yourself like you’ve just died, and maybe that’s really what paradise is. Growing up with depression, I thought it was a never ending thing. You’re sad, you hate life, and that’s it. But there is a way out, and sometimes you have to leave a place to endure it.

That place is somewhere far from here. You won’t miss this place. This place represents the old you. The new you is already crying on the floor in thanks that you’ve escaped, that you’re finally free. Your inner child is no longer locked up, no longer locked up in chains. She doesn’t have scars anymore. She is no longer a ghost, but another beating heart, not too far away from yours.

The ghost you used to carry turns white after a long time of being in the darkness. You breathe from your nose and out from your mouth like it’s your first time breathing, like you’ve been rebirthed. People look at you and smile. They don’t look at you for your color, but welcome you.

The sea hugs your curves and caresses you like you’ve become one with Amphitrite. The birds sing their song when you wake up, and more importantly, when you wake up, you can move. You’re no longer strapped to your bed in panic. You can eat again. You cook whilst singing in your kitchen whilst your dogs play in your acre of land.

You never took your old life for granted. However, it kept you in such chains that you forgot how to live. You forgot how to be human.

﹏﹏﹏ ✦ ﹏﹏﹏

What does it mean to be human?

Sometimes I feel no less than a robot, a machine that doesn’t stop working, or performing, I should say. What does it mean to paint with the arms of your lost ones and carry the blood with you wherever you go?

What does it mean to stare at the wall and want to see a window? A window where the glass doesn’t break, where you can see plants entangle on your house in a form to say hi, and not to entangle your heart and rebust your revitalization of happiness?

What does it mean to live?

los patrones nímicos de tus sincronicidades aplastaron mi alma como tu lengua borró todo mi mapa de este mundo

llévame y muéstrame tus defectos

desacralízame en tus momentos más sublimes, besa mis cicatrices coloca tu mano sobre mi corazón sumérgete en mí hasta que colisionemos como las estrellas esta noche

bébeme como un pinot perfectamente añejado, el sabor que permanece en tu lengua

tócame soy tu tapiz

píntame con tus dedos

fóllame despacio

querido tú eres mi alma

“Soy tu buena chica”, digo.

Llevo un collar, pero no está donde normalmente pensarías que estaría.

No ladro para ti. No maúllo. Solo te miro a los ojos mientras sostienes un botón y lo presionas varias veces. Sigo mirándote fijamente, inmóvil como una estatua.

Me detengo al sentir una ola de electricidad recorriéndome de abajo hacia arriba, haciendo que incline la cabeza hacia atrás.

Me agarraste del pelo.

Tiras de él, me llamas buena chica y me dices que abra la boca, así que hago lo que dices y la abro de par en par.

Escupes, trago. Escupes, trago, y entonces me empujas y caigo de espaldas sobre la cama.

Tus dedos bajan por mi pecho hasta mi clítoris y lo acaricias con mucha suavidad, y después con mucha más intensidad. Me aferro a la cama y grito tu nombre.

Me muerdes el labio, impidiéndome gemir.

Una vez más, escucho tu respiración agitada sobre mi piel.

su voz sonaba como el océano, pero no de la manera que piensas. no era violenta, no era agresiva. las olas chocaban delicadamente contra mi piel.

su voz sonaba como el prado por el que corría de niña, el sol brillando en el cielo, la brisa acariciando mis mejillas, abrazándome y acercándome hacia ella.

su voz se siente como el atardecer, cálida en el corazón, pero quema cuando te acercas demasiado. un fuego peligroso que permanece y se queda cerca de ti, que no desaparece de tu vista, y aunque lo apagues con agua, todavía hormiguea alrededor de tu alma.

su voz suena como la risa de un alma que alguna vez fue quemada hace muchos años.

su voz suena como los misterios y las imposibilidades de esta tierra que todavía están por descubrirse.

su voz suena como las sombras de mi corazón, que una vez anheló tanto y con tanta profundidad.

su voz suena como una diosa que nunca dejó de escribir su historia hasta el fin de los tiempos.

“Hey little girl, what are you doing here all alone?” a man says to me whilst I hide in the shadows. You can hear me whimper, you can hear me cry, but you don’t go further.

“Leave me alone, you’ll push me away before I do with my own problems,” I say as a defence mechanism because I’m scared to be hurt again.

“I won’t do such thing, little girl. You’re safe, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Those words hit deep because I’ve never heard those words before without hearing a loud noise afterwards.

I walk closer to him, and as I get closer I see a white light pulling me in like a magnet.

I hug it and feel a warm wave of happiness rush through me. A little voice says in my ears, “You’re free.”

I look around and there’s nothing around me. I look down and I see me. I see my body on the ground.

I try not to make a sound, but my heart wanted to scream out loud, crying and asking why.

The man stood there holding me and calling me his little angel, screaming for help from anyone else on the streets.

No one hears him. It’s like he’s in his own little world. “He’s schizophrenic,” and “just seeing things,” people said, but I saw me, so I knew it wasn’t not real.

I bang and stomp my feet saying, “I’m here, I’m alive, look up,” but not a single movement. His body froze. I felt my feet on a glass floor, and that’s when I realised I was trapped in his head.

People can scream for help, but not everyone can or will hear them. No matter how much you scream and show people you need help, they will look at you with a blind eye to protect them from their own wounds that they still carry, but we mistake them for wanting us to be forgotten. Maybe it’s best to see it that way. Because if we think we should be forgotten, we may end up forgotten and can live in peace.

There’s something so fundamentally strange about a girl who grew up having everything. You may think she will grow into a spoiled brat, but quite the opposite, actually. I grew up not wanting the riches, the gold, or the pearls my mother kept beside her bed. I wanted the simple life, believe it or not. I wanted to live in a small flat, own a cat, and never get fat.

Although life had other plans for me. I did, in fact, get fat. I rather liked chubby me, not being able to fit into skinny jeans and forcing my smile by lifting my cheeks until they covered my eyes.

I didn’t quite make the best experience in schools. The fat mixed kid. Who would want to sit next to that?

As I grew up, I was introduced to exercise. I chose to take it because I couldn’t take the bullying anymore. I thought if I lost weight, the bullying would stop. I also worried I wouldn’t meet my Prince Charming. I took it like a pill, and it soon washed away, and I was the new me. But the little me was still buried inside.

Then I faced another problem. I was now the too pretty, too academic girl. While that’s everyone’s dream, for me it was my worst nightmare. I had barely any friends. No one wanted to hang out with me, and I wasn’t a part of the secret popular girls club that was so important to me. Coming out of a private education and going into public, you still carry that need to be the best or hang around the best. This isn’t me being a social climber, although at the time I was. I do admit I loved climbing to success, even if it meant I stepped on a few toes first.

I remember coming back from school and going straight onto social media. That was my escape world. I went onto the popular girls’ livestreams, their usual place to hang out. They chose to climb a wall this time. I think it was a bit Tarzan, but wow, the strength of those branches. If one of them snapped, it would be game over.

I watched their rucksacks being thrown from one side to another. Then, when they swung like they were in the jungle, they landed in the park and started studying, gossiping, and highlighting their work with the coolest stationery set I had always wanted. Then they noticed me viewing and switched off their live. That moment was when I knew something they didn’t want me to know.

That was the first time I knew what it was to know a secret, and it felt so good.

Growing up, I had always been the academic, the perfect girl. She never liked pink growing up. Always green, a neutral colour. It was better. Then she switched to black, her emo phase, which didn’t last long. But who knew that once the tiara slipped, it would make its way back to her head?

Once I started to love myself, I found myself loving the colour pink again. Wearing pink, even. Never to this day have I thought I would change this much. I’m a soft girl, really. I don’t have a wicked side. I have a character, though. When I feel safe, I show my sweetest side.

So don’t ever take away my glitter.

Because once you do, it takes many fragments of fairy dust to fix it.

grief takes many forms of people away from their souls

sadness can take a hold of a person

like a sort of possession.

tears will fall,

but the silence it carries

won’t be all.

anger is something that happens

not so often,

but when it strikes in you,

you push away people

before they push away you.

the chilling fragment of grief

creates such a distorted vision.

seeing a dead loved one

around the house

is one way,

but if it’s a grievance of your life,

you may start to see

the little you

running about

in laughter and joy,

picking up stones

and enjoying life,

not thinking about

how complicated it’s all gonna get

once you step out

of your innocent age.

then you see

a black veil

cover your small self,

suffocating your scream

and your smile

no longer visible.

you vanish,

but what remains

is the dark soul

that once were pure.

when we think

of the fallen angel,

in a philosophical sense,

we think that once they had fallen

they had lost

the purity of their heart.

this isn’t me

calling myself

a fallen angel,

but more as myself

has been reincarnated

into something

that I didn’t think

I could ever be.

when I see myself

and I look in myself,

I see someone

who overworked,

someone

who overtired,

someone

who failed

to give herself

some rest.

she fell

between the sword

that was between her thighs

and her heart,

the cold metal

pressing against her,

bleeding out her pain

when she tried

to suppress it.

her knees

soft at touch,

delicate

like an angel,

scars

that were

her happy little accidents.

a voice

that causes familiarity

but not in this world

comes towards you.

you run to it

thinking you’ll be safe,

they eat parts

of your heart

and never give it back.

they may apologise,

but then

the deviance of their soul

comes towards

the surface.

but once you scrub

all your skin off,

nothing will be removed

but your innocence

and dignity.

the last phase

of grievance

is the solitude

of knowing

you won’t be

no longer.

that comes

from constantly

fighting yourself

to stay whole,

till one day

it all breaks off

and you become

like ashes.

El sol ya no brilla nuestra piel,

la deja amargada.

El sol aún recuerda nuestros nombres, nuestros hogares,

recuerdan nuestras sonrisas, nuestras risas.

Recuerdan la forma en que tu cabello castaño brilla bajo el sol,

cómo siempre contabas historias a la medianoche,

cómo usabas tus camisas de botones de colores,

cómo siempre pedías la misma bebida,

un old fashioned de Oaxaca.

Pero lo que no recuerda

es lo que la luna llevaba.

Las escaleras en tu hogar,

todos los cumpleaños, graduaciones, fiestas,

visitas en tu casa,

la cantidad de veces que bailaste en tu sala de estar

escuchando viejos CDs

y lo más importante,

todo lo que llevó,

todas las historias,

todos los pensamientos no escuchados

que nadie más tuvo el placer de oír.

El Sol puede ser el marginado de la historia,

pero la luna conocerá tu alma.

Al crecer, siempre fui diferente.

Nunca encajé con otros.

Quería serlo todo y nada al mismo tiempo.

Quería conocer la cultura de todos los demás

sin conocer la mía.

Nunca solía mirar mucho el sol,

notando los detalles del calor radiante,

los pájaros cantando,

la brisa moviendo los árboles.

Ahora es lo único que quiero notar.

Tener un pequeño grupo de personas a mi alrededor

porque vivimos en un mundo

que ya te hace sentir no deseado.

Rodeado de millones de personas,

estar rodeado de personas con ideas afines

lo es todo.

Esa es mi familia.

La gente dice que no eliges tu familia,

pero algunos a veces obtienen la familia que siempre quisieron,

algunos están llenos de negligencia y arrepentimientos.

Solo necesitaban encontrar la familia

que estaba justo ante sus ojos.

Los grupos pequeños no necesariamente significan sin diversión,

porque cuando estás acostado bajo el sol

con personas que amas.

El Sol conoce la superficie y el presente,

pero la luna conoce los recuerdos.

Lléname, papi, crema en mi tan fuerte que tú deliciosa leche gotea de mí.

Nutrirme con el postre mientras me haces el amor lentamente,

agarra mi cabello y empuja la fuerza de tu universo dentro de mí,

no hasta que vea las estrellas,

sino hasta que tus palabras ocultas se vuelvan visibles en mi flujo sanguíneo.

Y sin embargo sigo brillando y centelleando como una estatua de oro.

Arrodíllate frente a mí y besa mis pies, saboréame lentamente,

luego toca mi corazón con un rayo de luz.

Ya no aparecemos,

sino que por una vez nos convertimos en estrellas en el cielo.

Tu voz sostiene lo que la mayoría no puede ver.

Aférrate a ella cerca, no dejes que se desgarre en los departamentos de este mundo no deseado.

Tu corazón, tu alma, tu devoción, es todo lo que es tan frágil para que esta sociedad lo sostega.

Solo los justos pueden tenerlo, pero ten cuidado porque podrías desvanecerte.

Tu ropa habla las palabras del alma que no puede hablar.

Los diseños creados por ángeles de corazón.

Rizos castaños dorados bajo el sol,

eres la elegida.

Pero ¿elegida para quién? Esa es la verdadera pregunta.

Sí, existe Dios, pero ¿a quién te aferras? ¿Bajo qué poder?

¿Tierra o sol? Mírame a los ojos, muéstrame a quién perteneces.

Bebe el agua de manantial que te doy directo del arroyo, que entre en cada vena que brilla en ti.

Eres arte. Eres una salvadora.

Del tipo que pertenece en un museo.

No guardada, sino escondida como una fortaleza secreta, esperando ser revelada en los rayos de tu amor.

El sol se abrirá a tu favor. Que todo lo que cae caiga con él. La prevalencia de la piel besada por el sol como si fuera creada de los favores de Isis,

Besa la higuera lujuriosa que nace en esta tierra. Toma cada fragmento de aroma y admíralo contra tus labios. Bésame, déjame ver qué ha creado tu sabor.

La gente se masturba con la apariencia de otros, pero ¿por qué no con su personalidad? Sus ojos son las semillas de las almas de vidas pasadas. El tapiz antiguo que ya no fue.

Mira en mis ojos, dime quién ves. ¿Fui siempre la Afrodita o la Atenea? ¿Dónde descansan mis besos? ¿En mi cuello o en mi clavícula?

Aquellos que han sido besados en su clavícula son más admirables. Aquellos que han sido besados en su cuello son excepcionalmente románticos.

¿Dancé o me ahogué en las historias de otros? ¿Cuál es mi propósito en esta vida? ¿Quién soy? ¿O soy un reflejo de la memoria de alguien?

Cada vez que tu cuerpo se dobla, el universo cede ante ti. Tus ojos son mundos gemelos que envían satélites para orbitar. Tu piel está hecha del mismo tejido del tiempo. Busca la luz dentro de ti. Déjala fluir como un río a través de tus venas. Úsala para manifestar tus sueños en la existencia.

-LANG LEAV

Bébeme en un día de verano, papi.

Recuéstame sobre tu mesa.

Deja que la miel y el limón recorran mi cuerpo.

Soy tu apetito sacrificial.

Lame mi cuerpo de abajo hacia arriba, con tus ojos fijos en mí, viéndome estremecer por ti.

Quiero que la miel se despliegue sobre tu lengua como un manto espeso.

Bésame, papi.

Abofetéame.

Y descomprímeme con tus defectos.

Abrázame como si no existiera un mañana.

Y mírame a los ojos una vez más.

La oscuridad que guardan tus ojos.

Soy tu fuego peligroso.

Me aferraré a ti.

Ahora y para siempre.

sabrina carpenter has convinced thousands of girls that feminism is about hating men. deconstructing them. treating relationships like a war you need to win. and i've watched so many girls in my life start talking like this and genuinely believing that this is what feminism means. and it's not. it's so far from what feminism actually is that i don't even recognize the thing we're calling feminism anymore.

she's built this entire persona where your job as a woman is to destroy men or at least make them uncomfortable. where relationships are adversarial. where female solidarity means rooting for other women to hurt men. and somehow we've all just accepted this as gospel. like this is the natural evolution of feminism when it's actually the exact opposite of what feminism has ever been about.

i'm not trying to be dramatic but i genuinely think sabrina has convinced our generation that feminism is a hate movement. and we're all just accepting it like that was always the point.

what feminism actually was before sabrina ruined it

okay so i need to take you back because i genuinely think most people have no idea what feminism was actually fighting for. and i mean this with love but it was not what sabrina is selling.

first wave feminism. 1800s and early 1900s. and i'm talking about a different world. women couldn't own property. like at all. if you inherited money from your parents it went to your husband or your father. you couldn't have a bank account in your own name. you couldn't vote. you literally had no say in anything. couldn't go to university, couldn't work most jobs, and if your husband beat you? zero legal recourse. zero. he owned you basically. that was just how it was.

so women fought. and i mean actually fought. they marched in the streets. they got arrested. they went on hunger strikes in jail and got force fed. these women were willing to literally destroy their bodies for the right to vote. for the right to own their own money. for the ability to be a person under the law.

they weren't making tiktoks about deconstructing men. they were taking on a system that saw them as property. that's different. that's so different from what we're doing now.

second wave. 1960s through the 80s. by now women could vote which was great but like... we still couldn't get a credit card without a man's signature. couldn't get birth control without your husband's permission. if you were sexually harassed at work there was literally nothing you could do about it legally. nothing. betty friedan wrote this book called the feminine mystique that basically said "you're being told to be happy as a housewife but you're actually dying inside from boredom and wasted potential" and it just exploded. because so many women felt that. gloria steinem was out there fighting for equal pay for equal work. like the basic concept that if a man and a woman do the same job they should make the same amount of money.

these feminists didn't hate men. they thought the system was rigged and it was. they wanted women to have choices. to have agency. to not be trapped. that was the entire point.

third wave late 90s onward. and this is when feminism started getting smarter about the fact that not all women experience oppression the same way. a black woman faces different stuff than a white woman. a poor woman faces different barriers than a rich woman. it became intersectional. more thoughtful. but it was still fundamentally about expanding freedom and possibility.

none of these waves were about what sabrina is doing. none of them were about hating men as a lifestyle choice. that's not feminism. that's just... a brand. a really profitable brand that makes a lot of money off young women's anger.

what sabrina has actually done

here's the thing that actually gets me mad. sabrina has turned feminism into a performance. and she's genuinely so good at it. like she makes deconstructing men look appealing. she makes humiliating them look righteous. she's built this entire persona where modern relationships are basically a game and you win by making the man lose. and i watch girls absorb this and i feel like i'm watching something bad happen in real time.

and it works. oh God does it work. girls eat it up. i've seen it in my own friend group. girls who used to be excited about relationships becoming cynical and mean about men in general. and i get it because there IS real stuff to be angry about. there IS real sexism. real harassment. i've experienced it. we all have. so when sabrina comes along and says "men are the enemy, your job is to destroy them or at least make them uncomfortable" it hits different. it feels like she's naming something real even though she's actually completely twisting it into something toxic.

but here's what worries me. she's taking legitimate anger and funneling it into something that actually hurts women more than it helps us. she's made feminism into a personal brand that's entirely about what we hate instead of what we actually want to build. and she's convinced an entire generation that this is what feminism is. i genuinely can't even fully explain how dangerous i think that is.

and the guys saying they can't find girlfriends now? they're not wrong that something shifted. but it's not because feminism won. it's because of this exact thing. because in certain corners of the internet the dominant narrative became "men are the problem, relationships are adversarial, your goal is to dominate or punish." that's not a feminist victory. that's just different damage.

when you genuinely believe that feminism means hating men as a category, that female friendship means rooting for other women to hurt men, that empowerment is someone else's suffering, you've lost the entire plot. you've lost what feminism actually was fighting for. which was freedom for everyone. not just a different person on top.

gen z is not responsible for this but we're suffering from it

honestly gen z didn't invent this. we inherited it. millennials created a lot of the infrastructure for this. the girl boss energy, the whole "the girlies are..." thing, the performative call outs that feel good for like five seconds. we just took it and ran with it. we simplified it even more. made it snappier. turned it into soundbites because that's all our attention spans can handle anymore.

and the algorithm is literally built to reward what we're doing. it loves conflict. loves polarization. loves when groups bond over shared enemies. it punishes nuance. it rewards the simplest, hottest take. so we're all getting fed this version of feminism that's been completely stripped of meaning and refilled with whatever gets the most engagement.

real feminism is actually hard. like genuinely hard. it requires you to think about systems instead of just blaming individuals. it requires self reflection and admitting when you're wrong. it requires that you engage with people who disagree with you in good faith. it requires you to actually do the work.

but social media feminism? it's so easy. you pick a side. you dunk on the other side. you make a joke about men being trash. you get your likes and your retweets. you feel good about yourself for like an hour. and then you're empty again. and it doesn't actually do anything except make us all more bitter and more alone.

sabrina has basically turned feminism into a hate group with better branding. and we're all consuming it like it's philosophy when it's actually just... marketing. targeted at us specifically because we're lonely and angry and the internet knows exactly how to monetize that.

what we should actually want instead of this sabrina circus

i'm going to be really honest here. i'm not anti feminism at all. like i believe in equal pay and equal rights and all of that. i'm anti what we're calling feminism right now. those are genuinely different things and i need you to understand that.

real feminism would mean that you could look at your brother or your boyfriend or a random guy on the street and just... see a person. not an avatar. not the villain of your story. not a system to dismantle or a problem to solve. just a person.

it would mean we could fight for women's rights without it being framed as punishment for men. like those could be two separate concepts. wild i know but hear me out.

it would mean that when a woman gets hurt by someone she could heal from that without the entire internet using her pain as justification for hating an entire gender. i'm not saying ignore her. i'm saying her experience with one person shouldn't define your experience with everyone.

it would mean that female friendship came from shared values not from shared enemies. that we supported each other because we actually believed in the same things, not because we hated the same group.

it would mean that the end goal is a world where everyone has freedom and dignity and opportunity. not just a world where we switched which group gets to suffer.

sabrina carpenter's feminism? it's not feminism. it's a product. a really well marketed product. and we've confused the packaging for what's inside. and i think it's making all of us worse at connecting with people and being happy.

the real version is harder. it requires you to actually think instead of just react. it requires that you resist what the algorithm wants you to be. it requires that you hold this genuinely radical belief that men are people too. that they have feelings and dreams and aren't just obstacles in your journey.

that's way harder than making a viral post about deconstructing men through humiliation. but it's the only version that actually builds something instead of just destroying everything.

maybe sabrina will read this. she probably won't care. but maybe you will. maybe you'll realize that actual feminism was never supposed to make you bitter. it was supposed to make you free. actually free. not just angry in a way that looks like freedom.

There’s a wishing well on the other side of the pond but we don’t know what’s inside it. Maybe gold. Maybe promises. Maybe safety.

I walk towards it and throw in my coin. I only wish for justice.

Growing up I was told to believe that safety was something that was easily given to you, with the right help through parents and schools what could go possibly wrong?

Getting into high school wasn’t easy for me having to scavenge through academic difficulties I tried my best to be the A student, that was my dream since I didn’t make friends along the way to support my work and progress, the way they paint schools in tv shows is always so perfect, the certain euphoria of going to a high school and joining different cliques no one talks about how hard it is to sit in a classroom with a tutor that’s obsessed with you for a very specific reason, being the girl that was pushed aside I for what people assumed was to be the “innocent girl”, someone who doesn’t know anything or was able to acknowledge right or wrong. That is something that people failed at when observing my life in school, just because a student decides to be quiet doesn’t mean she doesn’t see everything that’s going on.

I had to stay quiet most of the time of my life when certain incidents happened because I didn’t have any form of proof that these incidents had happened.

And it’s sad to have to rely on proof instead of the giving voice of an individual in pain and scarcity because of the suffering she may face because of a tutors misbehaviour.

One of my biggest fears was if I didn’t speak up what could happen to me next, will I feel guilt if I don’t speak up, the answer is yes, because as someone who has to keep so much for herself the feeling of venting the most traumatising stories to someone of a professional background about someone else in another professional position feels so good to let it out, it’s like a rush of electricity through your body knowing it’s now no longer your responsibility to “take care of it”. But unfortunately I couldn’t and it still depends my guilt that I couldn’t talk about it, it depends my guilt even more to know that another student faced harassment after I left my high school behind me.

As I got older not only did I keep everything to myself but I found my ways to be more acknowledged incase situations occurred again or towards other people so I could help them.

Whenever i receive any form of harassment in the simplest ways and signs given to me possibly, I look past it within a blink of an eye, “ maybe they didn’t mean it this way”, “I’m reading into it too much”, “maybe they had a bad day”.

But I also came to the conclusion of what if, what if that sign was actually bigger than what it seemed what if that was a true and clear sign that, that individual wanted to do something to me that I didn’t consent to.

And what if it’s too late? What if my acknowledgment of seeing it as something ok lead that person to take advantage of me in ways I can’t even fathom. Every sign is still a sign

Later i looked into a website that helps woman from any form of danger- InvisaWear

This weblink helps woman navigate through an app that sends an alert straight to their local police station, also including a variety of jewellery pieces with hidden buttons to alert for safety, very discreet and helpful for women in any occasion, including cup covers incase of an outing situation.

This isn’t any form of partnership it’s just me simply spreading the word.

Women who choose the bear aren’t necessarily just talking about a trending video, they’re talking about safety and wanting justice from all these monsters that have caused us to close up or feel like we can’t walk at home safely. This isn’t me saying all men are dangerous. It is an acknowledgement that women often have to navigate a world where male violence and harassment are common enough that safety precautions become a part of everyday life.

The saying “it's not always men but it's always a man” tells you everything you need to know.

If you come across situation where a man offers you a drink. Be careful and very aware.

If you come across a situation a man wants to be alone with you and you don’t know him. Tell him you need to call your mom or sister because they need help with groceries, go to a corner where he doesn’t see you and send a message to your best friend or anyone that’s available to read and see your messages. So they know where you are also including your location.

The wishing well I came across was never really about being filled with gold or promises. It was about being believed without having to ask, without having to prove something happened. Not to be the boy who cried wolf.

My wish is for a world without fear, a world where safety isn’t something we have to plead for.

I’m at the bar and see a ravishing

gentleman standing before me

the mystery is all in his eyes dark

and luminous he bites his lip

looking down at me

normally i wouldn’t be into that

usually I like leading the way.

He makes it to his table orders a few drinks and before you know it he’s off,

I start to wonder where he’s gone, so I look for him, I run down the hallway in my heels only to feel a graze on my shoulder “looking for me” he said,
“I-i um- i” - stuttered whilst slowly turning around to look up and him
“what honey tell me .. were you looking for me? hm”.

He kept his lips locked moving towards me with purpose “I was wondering where you had gone you dropped your..”
“My phone?” he says whilst reaching for his phone in his pocket.
I thought i was smooth with that excuse but no, “oh yes right you’ve got it haha my bad i think I’ve had too much to drink I guess I better get going now”.

I scurry towards the elevator
I guess my luck has failed he’s way out of my league anyways, what’s was I thinking, that i could have him for just one second.

I go inside.

Then suddenly puts his arm out and says .. “wait”
I stop and look up.
“Oh?”
“You forgot something” he says with a grin on his face I look at my pockets to check if I’ve forgotten anything then look back at him.
“Me”..

The elevator doors close and he moves slowly towards me he cups my neck in his hands and growls “mhmm baby”.
“You’re so hot”.
I feel a circular wave of heat in my sacred fruit.

His hands trace down my body and tailgate around my skirt, he delicately touches my stockings and tears them
My legs instantly fall spread apart like a shutter of lightning hit me inside
“ohhhh is that what you want?”

I didn’t say anything my mouth couldn’t move his words did in ways I couldn’t comprehend.

“Be a good girl for me and tell me what you want”. He says whilst putting pressure on my thong, I look into his eyes with such urgency, I’ve never felt before .“I- i um”- I stutter

He pauses.

“Say it baby”. He said with a sudden groan that churned something in me.

I put his finger on my sacred fruit and said “fuck me make me feel like you would starve without me”.
And just like that he started fingering my rose like he had a timer on him, I started to pant my head going back further than my eyes could roll back “just like that” I said without any breath left.

He looked at me and growled
“mmmmh you’re my good girl”.

He dragged my stockings down and put his claim in my slow and hard back and forth i moaned so loud i feared the workers would hear me.

“Turn”.

He said and he slowly put me to my back and started to caress my back from top to bottom kissing every pathway that ever crossed me
slowly working his way back up he grabs my wavy hair and massages it in a soft motion whilst pressing his long hard claim against me.

The pressure only rises higher and higher till the elevator stopped
We looked at eachother in panic the elevator doors open and we quickly rearranged ourselves incase someone was outside and

all that was left was his scent on my clothes.

place the veil of darkness on my tongue

look up at me like the stars

darling you haunt me

but your heart is so intriguing

churn me your heart

inject me with your screaming soul

and fawn over me

till my eyes go back and bleed red

all night

all night

cusp my face in your hands

stare at me see the sorrow in me connect with yours

dearly beloved

i’m your prisoner

it’s my turn to take a hold of your pain

chamber me

you carried so much weight

let me be your slave

in your castle up top

till i hear the screams in your head

no one can see me

nor can i escape

i’m yours forever

untangle me softly and press me onto your chest

through the fire escape

till we become one

darling darling

cheer me on

as i dance in your chamber

all night long

people speak about the tortured poet as though suffering is a prerequisite for beautiful writing. as though every poet has spent their life trying to outrun reality with a notebook tucked beneath their arm. i don’t think that’s always true.

people look at me and decide who i am before i’ve even opened my mouth. they imagine my bedroom, my house, the clothes i wear when no one is watching. they see a basic girl, an innocent girl, a girl who still has the whole world left to discover.

but i have seen the world through a tiny lens. sometimes that lens has been enough to show me everything. i have felt like a bird that has fallen onto stone, small enough to be overlooked but hurt enough to remember the impact forever.

when we’re children, life is embroidered for us like a fairytale. we’re handed stories of wonder, dreams, and happy endings. what no one remembers to stitch into the fabric are the magnificent tragedies that arrive for every one of us.

the grief. the fear. the moments that quietly rearrange who we are. the stories we buried just to stay alive.

if you’ve read a lot of hottgirldiaries, you’ve probably read my piece on the things i’ve buried to stay alive. i think we carry far more stories than we ever tell. sometimes we bury them so deeply that we forget they are the very things that built us.

the things i buried to survive- article

we are shaped by every crack, every silence, every wound we decided to survive. we rise from the stone that once knocked us down, not untouched but unravelled into something more human, more honest, more beautiful.

to be a tortured poet is not to romanticise suffering. it is to know where you come from. i think that is beautiful.

maybe the greatest misunderstanding is that poetry is an escape. for some, it is. but for others, poetry is what remains after life has already happened.

the body keeps moving through ordinary days while the soul quietly gathers everything that mattered. every hurt. every kindness. every impossible memory. until one day it has nowhere left to exist except on the page.

some people think poets have long lived for their freedom and have to write to escape reality.

but i think some are just free in a subconscious sense.

some have already lived an amazing life, even if no one else could ever see it.

their soul is what remains to exist with poetry.

you kissed me

and i tasted your strawberry chapstick

it feels like those long nights ago

holding your hand beneath the night sky

blasting troye sivan in the background

purple lights

smoke filled skies

everything light

before the world got heavy

you’re my little valentine

back then

love lived in tiny things

holding hands until our palms grew warm

making out until the strawberry disappeared

looking at each other

like tomorrow had already promised itself to us

the sky always looked purple

or maybe memory has painted it that way

everyone seemed golden

walking home with glitter on their eyelids

laughing too loudly

falling in love every other friday

before the world learned

how quickly

everything could disappear

i still buy strawberry chapstick

sometimes

without meaning to

i twist the little tube open

and for one impossible second

you’re there again

your mouth tastes like summer

mine tastes like hope

we kiss

the years between us

become weightless

until memory does

what memory always does

it crumbles

not into dust

but glitter

i’ve always wanted to go back to school.

after taking a break, i never thought it would break me in the ways it did. i never thought it would affect my mental health so deeply.

but it did.

it changed so many things.

the first was my friends.

no one tells you how hard it is to make friends from scratch. when you’re homeschooled, you convince yourself that your life is just your studies, that your classroom will be your whole world, and one day you’ll step outside and everything will magically fall into place.

but it doesn’t always happen like that.

the second was your dreams.

you don’t think they’ll disappear, do you?

when you close your eyes, you see your old classroom. you see your classmates, even the ones who didn’t always treat you kindly. you see your teachers, the ones who hurt you, and somehow in your dreams they look different because they aren’t really there anymore.

are they?

well, at least you’re not there either.

you’re safe now.

you’re wearing the uniform you always wished you had. your hair falls below your shoulders, your perfume fills the air, maybe you even have your own little clique. for a moment, you’re living the life you always imagined.

then you wake up.

and it feels like losing someone you loved.

you open your eyes, your heart aching, and look across your room only to realise that in two minutes your mother will wake you up to study again.

the expectations were always high. sometimes too high.

i could never fully express myself until i turned 18, when i finally reached some level of maturity. but the little girl inside me was still there, still hoping, still believing that maybe one day i could step into the real world and finally have the academic life i always dreamed of.

but i was stuck again.

university isn’t easy either.

i don’t even enjoy it anymore because i know i won’t have a crowd of people cheering me on when i receive my graduation award. the people i studied with live in different countries now, scattered into their own lives.

but maybe that’s okay.

maybe some chapters aren’t meant to look the way we pictured them.

i still have my 20s.

and maybe there are still things waiting for me that i haven’t even imagined yet.

what else could i miss out on?