Books| Poetry | Porse | Monologue| journal

Of all the female sins, hunger is the least forgivable; hunger for anything, for food, sex, power, education, even love. If we have desires, we are expected to conceal them, to control them, to keep ourselves in check. We are supposed to be objects of desire, not desiring beings.

You don’t miss people, you miss the version of yourself that existed, when they loved you.

Some days,

There’s rot beneath the silence, but it smells like perfume. I think that’s how grief survives, by pretending to be beautiful.

Some nights I mistake detachment for peace. They’re not the same, but they wear the same face in the dark.

You taught me that endings don’t need witnesses. Just quiet. Just the slow collapse of what once dared to exist.

I polish myself into glass. Every crack glares back, mocking me. Nothing is ever enough, but I keep chiseling anyway.

You are not unloved, you are just loved in ways too small to reach your hunger.

You crave freedom, but keep handcuffing yourself to memories that left you bleeding.

You forgive everyone except the one person who begs for it daily, "Yourself".