a new direction



I am here. Wide awake, when I should be sound asleep. All alone, when I should be with you. Your scent still lingers on the pillow next to me and I pull it closer against me. It makes me safe. Safer than I am without you by my side. I want to inhale it and bring you back to me. I am not ready to let go.

I knew, that this would happen sometime soon. I knew, that one night, I would wake up and you would be gone. That night is now. You promised, you would never leave me. But you broke your promise. You did this to us.

I came home and your bags were backed, ready at the door. You said you would go back to your mom’s, until I found a new place to stay. But where am I supposed to stay? I don’t have the right to work here. I don’t have much money left and the friends – they are yours, not mine. Not one of them will offer me a couch to sleep on, because no matter how you’ll twist and turn it, I’ll stay the stranger, the foreign woman, who gave up everything for you. You couldn’t look at me, when you walked out of the door and I refused to scream and shout at you. I refused to call you back. I refused to cry in front of you.

Maybe that was my biggest mistake. Maybe I should have fought for you. Maybe I should have asked what was going wrong. I didn’t even think about it. I just saw you and your bags and the determination in your eyes. And the sadness too. I let you go and it broke my heart.


It’s the middle of the night and I am still clutching your pillow. I don’t want this to end. I am not ready to let you go. In the spur of the moment, I grab the phone and dial your number. I take a deep breath and sit up straight. I pull your pillow onto my lap and straighten the cover around my legs. On the third ring, you pick up and for a moment, I am speechless. No words are ready to be said.

“It’s me.” I finally say, still running my hand over imaginary creases in the sheets.

“I know.” you say. I wish I could hear more hope in your voice. Instead, I hear wariness and sadness.

“What happened?” I ask, coming straight to the point.

“Everything. Nothing. I am dried up.” he confesses and wouldn’t I know what he is talking about, I wouldn’t understand. But I do. He has lost his creativity. The worst possible scenario for a painter. He hasn’t touched a brush since I am here. I am not keeping him from doing so, but he doesn’t paint anymore.

“Is it my fault?” I ask, dreading the answer. Maybe it is my fault. Maybe it’s the natural way of creativity. It’s like a wave, sometimes all consuming and there and other times only barely tangible. Almost nonexistent.

“Maybe.” he whispers and I can feel the tears burn in my eyes. I knew it, but I didn’t want to hear it. I am certain, that I will never win his heart over his art. He lives, breathes, sweats for his art. I can’t win this war.

“I don’t want you to go.” I finally say, after a short silence that was heavy in the line.

“I don’t know what to do. It’s all I can do. I am good at it.” I can practically see him running his hand over his bald head. Back and forth, feeling the stumbled underneath his fingertips.

“I know. I know.” I whisper and I can feel him pull away even further from me. He is slipping through my fingers and there is nothing I can do.

“I can’t sleep without you by my side. I never thought, that I would be addicted to you like this.” he says and I feel the same. I can’t sleep without feeling his body close to mine and hearing his rhythmic breaths.

“But I am draining you. Why can’t I be a source of energy for you? Why can’t I inspire you?” I don’t want him to answer. I don’t want him to crush my heart even more.

“I don’t know. I wish I would know.” he sounds like he is crying now and I long to hold him. I don’t want to make him miserable. I don’t want to make him sad. But I am not ready to let go. Not yet. I let go of too many things lately.


“Can I come home?” his question pierces through my thoughts and I don’t know what to say. I smile – no grin – I want to say so many things, but there is a big lump in my throat and it prevents the words to roll off my tongue. Not even a sound comes out. I panic. What if he takes my silence as a ‘no’? He clears his throat, while I still struggle to make a sound. Tears wet my cheeks. Happy tears, because he is coming back. Soon. It won’t be like it used to be and I know that. Everything will change between us and yet, I crave his touch and his kiss. I need him to take me into his arms and pet my hair gently. I like it, when I lean my head against his shoulder and his hand racks trough the lengths of my hair. I soothes me.

“Yes” I finally croak.

Before anything else can be said, he is gone. There’s only the familiar beep audible. I look at the phone, as if it could answer all those unasked questions. The beep sounds mocking and I put the phone face down my the nightstand.

I rub my face with my hands. So much drama for nothing. But how am I supposed to make his creativity come back? There is nothing I can do.


Not even five minutes later, I hear his key in the lock of the front door. I run my hands through my hair, to flatten it a bit. It’s a silly move, but it makes me believe, that I look much better now, than before. I wait. Patiently. Nervously. The bedroom door opens and he is back.


He sits on the bed, wringing his hands, looking down at his feet. They’re naked now. I come closer to you. Putting a kiss on your shoulder, resting my head on it.


“I am sorry.”

“Don’t give up on me. Not yet.” I whisper and he turns in my arms. Together, we curl up in a ball under the sheets. He is still dressed. It doesn’t matter. He’s back. He puts his head on my chest and listens to my heartbeat. I kiss his head. Our fingers entwine and we stay silent. Eventually falling asleep like this. Nothing is like it was before. It will never be the same, but which direction it all will go – I don’t know.


no more!

I know about caps lock and internet protocol… shout along with me. It’s freeing!

❤ micqu




I am here

paralyzed by deep fears

no more, I say



look at me – I’m busting the chains that keep me back










I recognize my worth, my talent. No matter what you say. No matter what they say.

NO MORE, I shout

hear me when I say it. Look me in the eyes. What do you see?


I am done with depression, repression, oppression



until the next time, when my paralyzing fears are back and threaten to bind me against my will

but right now, I want you all to hear it, to feel it in your bones


I never want to be one of their clones!


I read the words. Feel them rolling off my tongue. Filling my mind and making a movie behind my eyelids. They hit close to the core of my inner self and I have to swallow.

I am not alone with these thoughts. I am not alone. The words reach inside of me and grab my heart and soul. They understand. They never judge. Few people can touch me so deep inside and so completely too.

You are one of them. You are real. Not only words, but human too. I can feel the tiny hair on your arm, when I caress it. I can feel your breath, when I touch my forehead to yours. I can feel the moisture of your lips, when I kiss you. You are real. Not a writer.

Your words are inside me. Teach me. Guide me. I live by your words. Not without questioning them, not without doubting them from time to time. But they make me strong. Stronger than I was. They make me think. They make me want to change.


Words are a powerful tool. No matter if they are written or spoken. They can lift you high up in the sky. Make you happy, but they can also make you cry. Happy tears, sad tears. Words can tear you down as well.

Nothing can be as hurtful as words. Physical wounds can heal, wounds made with vicious words stay with you a life time. Trust me, I know.

I have many words floating in my mind. Some are lyrics to songs. Some are odd thoughts, serious thoughts, silly thoughts. But there are also the painful memories. The ones that wake me up at night and let me speak that one questioning word: Why? I will never get an answer. But do I really want and need an answer? No. Instead, I concentrate on the happy memories. Good words. Words, that make me proud about myself and who I am.


I am good with words. At least writing them comes easy for me.

Scary honesty.

That’s what my writing has been labeled just last week. It comes naturally. They flow out of my fingers. I am not even really thinking about the words I use. Not when I write like this. Not when I write from the soul. From the heart.


They never come easy, when I stand face to face with new people. Face to face… I can’t look you in the face when we first meet. I can’t. I am afraid to see something judgmental there. I know, that it’s an unrealistic fear and yet, it is there. It freezes me. And my words. I become a stuttering mess. The right words are in my head. They simply refuse to be spoken. I can rarely come up with the right words, when I meet someone knew. But give me time. I need time, to sort through my words.


So powerful. Damaging. Healing.

I wouldn’t know anyone of you without my words. My powerful, smutty, sad, happy words. I am good with words. Written words. They touch people. Make them laugh. Make them cry. Make them shake their heads and makes them wonder: Was this a lie?


My words are rarely lies. I know, that is not true for everyone. But if I can’t be honest with my words? How else can I be honest.

Scary honesty. Maybe it is true.

What certainly is, is that all my words… they are for you.


slip through the cracks in my walls…


And suddenly, it’s there, that feeling close to my belly button. Inside of me. At first, it is only a tickling, but it spreads and is engulfed with heat. With a certainty, I know, that this bubble of emotions, that is pent up inside of me, is about to burst.

It’s a well-known feeling. At least it used to be. It was well-known, when I was able to feel. The tickling behind my navel and the burning sensation behind my eyes. The heat reaches my face and I know, that only the impending tears are able to cool it off. My hands tremble, my breath is ragged. I squeeze my eyes shut. I am not here. I open my eyes again and the tears start to flow. For the first time in a long while, I cry and I grieve. I am not sure, if it is the loss of a loved one, or the loss of my family, that keeps distancing itself from me, as if I weren’t a part of it anymore.

How many times did I cry lately for a song or a movie? It never feels like this. This is real. Close to my heart. Something that hits home and hurts with every new blow. Something that reminds me vaguely of times, when it was easier to cry and feel.


Vulnerable and emotional. These are two words, two different people used to describe me. I felt offended. I admit it. I never saw myself like that. I am strong. Unfazed. A people-pleaser. I was starving for affection and love. Still am, if I am perfectly honest. But emotional and vulnerable, that is a side of me only very few people get to know. Close friends. Real friends. People I trust.

These two people, who used the words to describe me, are people, who didn’t tear down my walls. I didn’t ask them in and yet, they found their way through small cracks in those walls and slipped through. Suddenly, they are there. With me. Behind my protective wall. They see through me easily. Uncover me easily. Accept me easily, without me needing to pretend or keep masks in place.


Amazing. That is another word that was used to describe me recently. Saying it myself, makes me sound conceited. It’s a strong word. One that makes me blush. One that makes me proud.


There are so many words to describe me. So many views. So many layers. So many facets I can show or hide. But only a handful of people, who can find the cracks in the walls and take my hand. Only a handful of people I turn to, when I feel the emotional bubble inside of me about to burst. Only a handful of people, who know about nightmares and situations, that make me cry.


A handful of friends who understand.


And all that I need to be, is being me.



You, who makes me persist

Walking down the hallway from class to class. I pray that they don’t see me and that I am invisible to them. Don’t let them see me. Don’t let them see how I fail in life. Don’t let them see how I loose control.

The hurt is almost unbearable. Not the physical hurt, but the hurt inside of me. The hurt that is trying to rip my heart apart and that is making it so hard to breathe. My skin feels too tight and I can feel their stares on me. I am the weirdo. I am the outsider. I am the girl dressed in black, who never looks you in the eyes. I am the girl, who knows the lyrics to every song she has ever heard but is too stupid to deal with simple mathematical problems. I sit at the back of the class, drawing and scribbling down notes. Notes that turn into poems. Songs that come from the broken and damaged heart.

The ringing bell and the hurried business of the other people takes me out of my revery. One or two weird looks are thrown my way, but they don’t talk to me. I am not like the others. I don’t run home. I take my time, but eventually, I need to leave class too.

The thin metal of a sharp blade breaks the skin on my forearm. My pale skin turns red. I breathe. I breathe through a pain, that I don’t feel. I open my skin, so that I can fit in it again. It’s like opening a valve, that lets my inner turmoil, my inner pain, flow free and for the first time that day, I manage a faint smile. I fall back on my bed. Almost like someone on drugs and I revel in this feeling. I turn the music louder. “Hope” from Anathema and I sing along. From the top of my lungs and I don’t care what they will say. They, who do this to me. Well not exactly. They don’t do it. They make me do it. They don’t prevent it and they don’t protect me. They push me deeper and deeper into my depression. I have long since accepted, that this is not simply puberty and that I will not grow out of it. I am addicted to this pain and over the time, it became the only way to cope. It becomes my oxygen and sometimes, it is stronger than me. I don’t want to cry for help. I sometimes wish, that I wasn’t born at all. It would spare me these feelings. No one knows about these feelings. I am simply the weird kid in class.

Who will ever be able to understand me? Is there even a kindred spirit in this world? Someone like me?

I am drowning. I am suffocating. I am imploding. Every day a little more.

They never react, when I pull up the sleeves of my shirts. They never ask, why I wear long sleeves even in summer and they never ask about the red marks on my skin. I only hide the fresh wounds. I want them to ask. I want them to see. But they don’t. They keep ignoring me. I am only of use, if they need something from me. Like a maid and a nurse. Not a daughter and a kid. I have no idea how it feels to be hugged and to be told “I love you kid and I am proud of you”

I need to hear those words so badly, but they never come. Never for me. Am I not worth being loved? Am I not the result of their education and love?

I scratch at the latest wound. Making it bleed again. I always do that. I already did that, when I was a child and had a wound from falling off my bike. Always scratch at it. Make it bleed. Make it hurt again.

Will I ever grow out of this phase? How damaged am I really?

Another day like all the rest. I stand in my corner until I see him. My ray of light. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know how much I love him from afar and he will never read the many many love letters and poems I wrote for him. He walks past me. I try to smile, but I am not sure, if it isn’t only a grimace on my face.

He keeps me going on. He is the reason, that I don’t cut deeper. He is the reason, why I get up every morning. I want to be seen by him. I want him to notice me. Speak to me. I want to know everything about him. What does he like and what doesn’t he like? Is he as weird as I am? He is a criminal. That much I know. He is a dealer. He sells death. But that’s not what I want. I want love. He climbs into a bus and I look after him. He looks at me and I feel my cheeks blush. I feel like squealing, but I don’t do it. Never show emotions. Instead, I smile and scratch at my wound. It makes me feel alive. He saw me and he smiled. Maybe that was my imagination and he smiled at someone else, but at this moment, the smile was for me. I take it. I store it away and it makes me draw even more hearts on my books. Hearts filled with his name.

I see my own reflection in a store window and I avert my gaze to the floor. He certainly didn’t smile at me. I am ugly. Not worth being noticed. Not worth being seen. For a moment, just a tiny little moment, I forgot who I am. Now, it’s coming back to me and it’s tearing me down.

I hate myself and my stupid expectations. My stupid wishes. I put my headphones on and turn the volume up. I vanish. I never raise my head, keeping my eyes to the floor. Nobody speaks to me. Nobody sees me. Not even he, who is the only reason I persist.