RCrystelles poetic thoughts

Do I write you a bunch of letters

With a series of undocumented poems

Deliver them to you with twenty-four red roses to illustrate my love

Do I show up at one of your performance

And shout your name in front of thousands of people

Tell them how much I desire to have you in my life as more than what you are now

Do I show up at one of your championship tournament

Watch you as you beat your opponent to the ground

With a small cut on your eyebrows

And bleeding lips

Cheering you on loud and proud

When you were alive,no one stood at the edges. Your house breathed people—walls warm with laughter,floors familiar with footstepsthat never needed permission. Every weekend,we found our way back to you.Like it wasn’t a plan,but a rhythm—a quiet promise we all kept. Chairs stretched themselvesto make room for late arrivals,plates multiplied without question,and no one ever askedif they…

I didn’t grow up ugly— I grew up unmarked by mirrors. In primary school, my body was just a body. I wore it like air— without question, without apology. There was an operation— 2004— a quiet interruption that left something behind. But no one told me it would become a language. Not yet. High school translated everything. That’s when I learned that a girl can be read before she…

We are done whispering our worth into rooms that never listened. Our voices were never small— only buried beneath centuries of someone else’s comfort. But listen now. Hear the thunder in the footsteps of women walking side by side. We are sisters not by blood alone but by every battle fought in silence. The hands that hold each other are the same hands that build revolutions. They…

I walked into you bare-handed, no guard, no strategy, just a heart stupid enough to believe honesty could be mercy. I said your name like an offering, like something sacred would be recognized when spoken aloud. You said you didn’t want a relationship. I swallowed that lie whole, let it sit in my chest until it started to rot. Later I learned the cruelty of translation— you meant not…

I think the cruelest part was not the ending, but how slowly it arrived, like grief that practiced on me long before it claimed its name. We said I love you in poems, because real life felt too fragile to hold those words. Ink became our shelter, lines became promises we were too afraid to keep. I wrote you into forever, while you stayed somewhere undecided. Each stanza held my…

I hoped he would apologize and take accountability for the way he hurt me. I hoped he would finally tell the truth— that he wanted a relationship, instead of keeping me seated in a waiting room with no clock, no door, only promises that never arrived. It’s strange how tears stream down my face for memories that never existed. Entire moments I hoped to create now feel like distant…

Come closer. Not to touch— just enough that I can feel the weight of what you’re holding back. I want your confession unspoken, carried in the warmth of your breath, the way your silence leans toward me before it decides to stay. Pour it slowly. Like wax that knows my shape already, that hesitates above the flame as if asking whether I’ll endure it— as if you don’t already know that…

The rain touches me like it knows how long I’ve been holding myself together, how many nights I whispered strength into the cracks no one could see. As it runs down my face, I feel parts of me unclench— the brave mask, the swallowed tears, the memories I tried to outrun. Here, under this sky, I finally let them breathe. I close my eyes and the world falls quiet, leaving only my…

Sometimes I look at the way I love and I wonder if I painted myself too open, too kind, too easy to reach. Like I hung a sign on my chest that whispers, “Take what you want… I’ll understand.” But that was never the truth of me. I wasn’t born a doorway — I became one. Years of forgiving too quickly, explaining away the red flags, believing that loving harder could fix what someone…

I missed you in a way that scares me to admit — a way too deep for someone I’ve never touched, too intimate for a bond with no name. I missed you even though you probably didn’t miss me. Even though your world kept moving, and mine paused every time your silence stretched too long. Planned meetings turned into cancelled plans, and every cancellation left me wondering what I wasn’t…

 painted our faces purple, not for beauty, but for mourning — a colour of bruises and royalty, of sorrow and strength intertwined. We flooded the timelines with shades of our silence, our profiles becoming protests, our names becoming numbers. We begged for recognition, for this blood-soaked crisis to be called what it is — a national disaster. But they rejected our plea, as if our…

I check the clock, the shadows, the path I walk every evening, and I ask the question that no daughter should ever have to ask— Am I next? The news flashes names like numbers, faces blurred by grief and repetition, and I taste their fear on my tongue, feel their absence in the air I breathe. I clutch my keys like a talisman, like a prayer, like a shield that might bend the hands of…

They say the streets remember her footsteps, echoes pressed in tar and dust, a girl who once laughed at the sky before it swallowed her whole. In this country, we bury daughters in daylight and call it breaking news. We light candles, chant “Aluta Continua,” and pray the wind carries their names past the ears of justice that never listen. I have learned to fear the walk home, to…

I sit across from you in a café that smells of cinnamon and quiet despair, my hands wrapped around a cup that trembles like my heart. “You look tired,” I whisper, the words trembling, almost ashamed, “Do you remember the nights I couldn’t sleep? The ones when rejection knocked so hard I thought I would crumble into dust?” You nod, eyes heavy with storms I’ve yet to face, yet tender with…

My heart has gone quiet, as if it finally got tired of proving its pulse. It lies still — not dead, just sleeping beneath the ruins of what used to matter. I don’t chase warmth anymore. Every time I did, I ended up burned, and I’ve grown tired of mistaking smoke for love. Maybe I’m healing, or maybe I’m just frozen in a way that feels safe. People tell me to keep believing, but belief…

There was a time the world stood still, when love was louder than our fears. We spoke in glances, not in words, and believed forever was near. Our laughter lived in every corner, echoing through borrowed nights, and even the moon would slow its spin to watch us under silver lights. We didn’t know what heartbreak meant, or how silence could feel so loud. We only knew that holding…