n 🌟

To be an adult, to make my own choices

and to be able to leave the toxic life I had.

Yet, as an adult, now I yearn to be a child again.

To experience the childhood that

I have always wished for.

I trace the map my body makes —

soft hills, wide rivers, rolling lakes.

No sharp-edged lines, no ruler's decree,

just generous shapes that speak of me.

These hips? They held the world one day,

they sway like music, lead the way.

This stomach — witness to late-night fries,

to laughter, holidays, and birthday pies.

It folds when I sit, it rounds with breath —

proof I am living, not a sketch.

My thighs touch like old friends do,

a secret handshake just for two.

They carry me up every stair,

strong columns dressed in tender care.

And this skin — it stretches, blooms,

makes room for joy, makes room for wounds.

I spent years shrinking, folding in,

apologizing for the space I'm in.

But bodies aren't math to subtract —

they're stories, feasts, a warm habitat.

So let me be ample. Let me be wide.

Let me take up the whole seaside.

The mirror and I, we finally agree:

these curves aren't flaws —

they're poetry.

And I am the poet,

and I am the page,

loving this body

I wasn't looking for love the way people claim they aren't looking for love while still checking the door every time it opens like it might be fate wearing a borrowed face

I had built my days like sealed rooms no drafts, no windows left cracked open just the quiet discipline of getting used to absence until it stopped feeling like absence and started feeling like structure

Love, I thought, was a language I'd already forgotten a rumor other people kept translating into music while I listened for something more useful like silence that didn't demand meaning

Then you walked in not like a storm, not like a revelation but like something that had always belonged there finally deciding to see

No thunder, no warning just the soft rearrangement of air as if the room itself exhaled and admitted it had been waiting

And suddenly my certainty felt thin like paper held too long over flame not destroyed, just reconsidering it's shape

I still don't know what to call it this interruption in my careful distance this undoing of all the ways I learned to be untouched

But I know I stopped looking for love the moment I realized it hadn't been something I was searching for

Watch the birds and people watch

Make up stories

Where they're coming from and going to

Take turns first me and then you

And in the morning remind me to wear sunscreen and a jacket

Fix my coller

Brush the dust off my shoulders as I leave

Want me at my best and love me at my worst

And in the evening notice my little scrapes and bruises

As you trace my outlines with your finger tips

Find my scars and make up stories about where they came from

Then make believe where were going and make me believe it's true

28/5/26

Because I'm human.

Human. That's funny. Being human means being allowed mistakes, to try and fail or succeed, to write in margins,

to think, to feel and live.

Maybe as much as I am impulsive, I desire control of every situation and outcome to feel good.

But that should not take over my life. Things can go bad or how I didn't want to - simply because. Trying to constantly find deeper meaning between lines that dont exist, it exhausts me. Because no one will know me in the depth as me.

You return to me, Cyclically: as a whiff of a hallucinated scent; As a flashback that Etches itself in the atmosphere, Lingering almost long enough to Return real.

Short-lived instances, these, wherein My inner world booms and blossoms By a sparked (mere) belief in your apparition.

If I am truly lucky, You return to me as a dream: Mine, for one night and a day.

So real, Almost real, That ever since you left, I have been wanting to make sense Of this

Returning.

First, I told myself it was the heart's Muscle memory:

The first time we met; our first kiss; The first time sex, and, Above all, The first "I love you" we Whispered into The aether.

All these golden threads tied to time's fabric. Yet time isn't cyclical,

Or is it?

Later, I considered The moon the culprit;

Thought Your returning Had something to do With its full pull, or new releasing All the water that makes me, or maybe At least my blood.

But despite wishful thinking Heavily influencing my pattern seeking, I could never Honestly link you to The phases of the moon.

In hindsight, I was only lying to myself. Cheating with the dates; what's a day, Anyway?

Everything, it seems.

Truth be told, I do not know Why your returning to me feels so cyclical, But when I look to the night sky each night And see the constellations slowly changing Places, as Earth is spinning, I realize this love is so much Bigger than me.

To me, You are love.

And love is all —

The All.

And I am spinning, Spinning, spinning.

I do wanna run away

Left behind my all tears

Worries

Responsibilities.

I wanna run away from my fears

Being fearless

Into the green rainy mountain

Close to the clouds.

I really wanna run away

But I'm a scaredy cat anyway.