Words From A Burnt Soul

I see you kneeling in the bruised house. I see you shouting—inside mind. Light leaks through the tears. I see myself, shivering— beneath the fan, beside the rope— my feet wet with guilt in the heat of July. We are going to cry. We are going to kill parts of ourselves. There were dreams once. They died. All we know now is: we won’t reach them. They were never meant to be real. And I won’t come to you—or to myself— and say don’t cry. No. Cry harder. Let the pain deepen. Give me more wounds. Give him more storms. You’ll do things you never thought you could. You’ll build something good inside this bruised house. You’ll taste joy in ways you’ve never heard of. You’ll want to feel it all. Still, I won’t come to stop you in the blue of the July moonlight. Your trembling face will turn to silence. Your sorrow—untouched by the world. And me— my tears melting into sweat— turning cold, turning numb. I am pain too. Unseen. Untouched. But we want to live. We refuse to run. So I take them— like ast...

Some days, I wake up like a forgotten letter— creased, faded, but still breathing ink. The fan spins above me, whispers like an old friend, telling me nothing has changed— and somehow, everything has. I don't run toward the sun. I just sit. Still. Let the tea go cold. Let the light fall on my cracked wall. Let silence take its place beside me like a loyal ghost. I think of the city. Of people walking fast. Of boys chasing dreams. Of girls laughing at nothing. And me— writing about it all from a room that forgot how to smile. But da— I didn’t quit. Even when my bones felt like soaked paper, even when the poems stopped coming like rain. Still, I wrote. Still, I spoke. Still, I stayed when staying felt like drowning. They say “make something of yourself.” But I don’t want to be “something.” I want to be someone— who felt deeply, who saw the cracks and still called them beautiful. So here I am. Not loud. Not big. Just here— with my voice. With my truth. And maybe, if you’re hearing thi...

Imagining a day with you is sweeter than being with you— or being sick with my loneliness on dark nights, on even the happiest nights. Maybe it’s the way your black shirt makes you look like a better, brighter Lana Del Rey. Maybe it’s the way I love you like someone who knows you’ll never be mine. Maybe it’s because you love him. Maybe that truth sits beside me at night, like a quiet wound I keep touching. I walk past the graveyard where fluorescent red roses bloom— no sun there, but they glow anyway, like the memory of you in places you’ve never been. Sometimes, I talk to you in my mind, and you listen like you used to— soft, half-smiling, already fading.

Why am I searching for love that doesn’t exist in you? There’s a song trembling in my voice, but still, I wait— to hear it sung from your mouth. Why do I silence my own melody, compress the breath inside me, just to catch an echo from your hollow wind? I stare at the distant moon as if she holds my secret. But what does the moon know of love that lives only in my chest? You don’t carry it. She doesn’t carry it. Yet I keep handing it over, like a gift no one asked for. Why do I search for home in eyes that never saw me? Why do I press my longing against mirrors, hoping they’ll show me something more than myself? Tonight, I sit quietly. No more searching. No more asking. The song is still here. My voice is still warm. And the love I thought I was giving away— it never left me. It was always mine. Still is.

To love you, to love it even— when you left me sixteen years ago. And everything you held dear crumbles like fire eating through the days we built. My throat swells with memories of you. Tears sit beside me, their cold heat melting to liquid, then vanishing into vapor. Tears weigh down my body like death itself. The only truth my mind knows— this heart shrinks in silence, and you're not here to wipe it away. How do I withstand this without you? I hold our son and daughter close, and see you in their eyes— two innocent kids, no tears in them, no smiles on their cheeks. And I whisper to you, softly in my mind: "Okay… you left me. Still, I will love you, again and again." 

One day, you finally go away. What I had to do—faded out in front of eyes that searched for you. In absence. In presence. The moon disappeared. The room tightened with silence. And I watched the old you in the rain. “Hold her,” each voice cried inside me— but I let you go. I didn’t know what I had to do. The wind hummed like your voice before it turned harsh. And my heart dug deep just to stay with you. It was too late. Enough. And a wild truth— you were no longer mine. Not even in imagination. Drop by drop, my eyes turned numb. My heart— an old hut where light slowly faded. Only your memory remains, saved in some quiet corner of my mind. My heart still opens— but not for you. All I can do now is live with myself, like a ghost.