#wordgasm

pulled out from the table

inside me.

It has been waiting for years.

Every morning

I straighten the house.

Every night

I leave the light on.

For whom,

I don’t know.

I only know

that some part of me

has never unpacked.

My body arrived.

My life arrived.

But something else

is still on its way.

So I wait.

In traffic.

In queues.

At red lights.

At 2 a.m.

At thirty.

At forty.

At whatever age comes next.

I wait

with the embarrassing faith

of someone who still believes

a knock at the door

can change everything.

The door stays closed.

The years keep entering.

And still,

before sleeping,

I clear a space

for a guest

who has never once

said they were coming.

Written by Aaliyah O'Neil

This poem was inspired by the prompt 'Ambition,' provided by @ghostingmyghosts and hosted by @picklemafia .

At five, I swore I’d join the stars—

A NASA suit, a seat on Mars.

With foil-wrapped boots and starry eyes,

I launched from gravel into skies.

At eight, I ruled the jungle green—

A zookeeper, both fierce and keen.

My lion roared; I roared back twice—

The garden pulsed with wild advice.

At ten, I trained for covert life—

A future agent, sharp as knife.

With torch in hand and bugged-out vents,

I filed reports and tracked events.

MI6 was where I’d go—

A licence for what none should know.

At thirteen, I began to fade—

Too loud, too odd, too much afraid.

I hoarded thoughts beneath my bed,

And only spoke with pens instead.

At fifteen, I would heal and mend—

An NHS doctor, wounds to tend.

I traced the heart in every book,

And studied pain in every look.

At eighteen, words rewrote my fate—

I turned from scalpels to create.

Poetry stole my will to fight;

I found myself in ink and night.

At twenty-five, I planned a life

Of Sunday shops and being a wife.

Two mugs, one sink, a porch, a song—

A quiet love, both safe and strong.

At thirty, motherhood took root—

Not just the child, the fierce pursuit.

Through sleepless dawns and Lego mines,

I shaped our world in softer lines.

At forty, I began to crave

Some time to keep, some peace to save.

I cut the noise, embraced the slow,

And learned the grace of letting go.

At fifty, I still danced alone,

But claimed the rhythm as my own.

I laughed, I cooked, wore what felt right—

And kept my clever tongue alight.

At sixty, memory blurred the view—

But scent and song still drifted through.

My daughter’s laugh, a lullaby,

Still simmered in my shepherd’s pie.

At seventy, I sought old friends—

The ones who knew my odds and ends.

We shared old sins and cups of tea,

And stitched the past with honesty.

At eighty, I became a guide—

No shame left now, no need to hide.

They came for cake, stayed for my lore,

And left with more than they came for.

At ninety, love was all I kept—

A hand to hold, a dog that slept.

No medals gleamed, no statues rose—

Just peace that only old age knows.

At one hundred—if I get there—

Let children charge the garden air.

Let dreams run wild, let laughter play,

And bless the dusk of one more day.

© Aaliyah O'Neil 2025. All rights reserved.

MEMORY OF A PROMISE

I still think of you.

You somehow became more real

As you faded slowly in flesh and blood.

Distance did not take you far

Like a trail it brought you back

In a loop.

You somehow became more real

Real , just as I had once needed you to be.

I make you smile and look at me

The way I wanted you to then,

I can picture you as the lover I wanted 

To see.

My eyes see with my mind

What they longed to see

When you forgot to look at me.

In my mind you are just as I had thought 

You to be.

I listen to songs

From our time together 

They seem sweeter now,

Like fulfillment.

They don't have the ache of heartbreak

Like they did when we heard them together 

Lost in our own little worlds

Doors shut to each other.

I like the songs more

I don't cry as I hear them now

There is a stillness of coming home

In these memories of us

As if the lights are on

And you are silhouetted by the window.

The cigarette smoke 

Beckoning me 

As a warm hearth would 

On a cold day.

I see you in my mind

Just as you had promised

Once you would be, to me.

I told myself to forget that promise

The day I walked away.

I wiped  out the clouds from my sky

So the sunshine of my own magic

Could recreate you

And turn you into a permanent 

Dawn scattered upon 

my lonely firmament.

.

haunted by the idea of eternity—

trapped in a body,

not yet a corpse,

rotting.

fuel for a garden,

a perfect place to rot.

woven into roots,

forgotten beneath the dirt.

is my purpose to feed the earth?

am i to die slow

and call it meaning?

rotting,

until there is something to find.