Thoughts of this Wednesday

Everything you ever write can be interpreted as something it was not intended to be. The kindest, nicest words can be turned around, and suddenly, they are an insult.

We are always the asshole (or bad person) in someone’s story.

You think someone did you wrong? Maybe they did. But remember: haven’t you stepped over anyone recently? Dismissed someone? Ignored a message or a call? With no ill intent, and yet, it will make you the asshole in someone’s story. You didn’t behave they way the other wanted/needed/expected you to behave.

That’s life. There are two sides to every story. The thing is, I know it and realise it, and yet, I can’t always remember it. And even worse, I can’t act on it.

The psycho needles (acupuncture treating depression) seem to help. I am seeing a lot clearer all of a sudden. Maybe I just pretend to see clearer. Who knows and who cares?

I need to focus on the good and stop blaming myself or making me the victim. After all, I am strong and I am opinionated. I have a voice. And I decided that I will raise it more often from now on.

Kill them with kindness, compassion, and empathy.

years and years

Silent truths laid bare

Love. Light. Care.

You. Me. There.

Truths said out loud

Secrets in a cloud

Weaknesses allowed.

Simple touch

Touching you

Touching me

A love that comes in waves.

Fleeting touches

A smile

Chocolates for no reason

Eye contact

You touching me touches you touches me.

mundane love

My head on your belly when you are watching TV

A kiss on the shoulder when you are getting dressed

A hug, demanded – I claim it as mine

Laughter and conversation.

But some times I am greedy and hidden in my head

I don’t understand and you don’t do either

And still, it is love.

Thoughts on a shelf

I stumbled over your train of thought. Angry at first, I swore under my breath, holding my ankle in pain. I looked around, ready to give you a piece of my mind, but you were not near, and you were a stranger anyway. How was I supposed to recognise you? I picked your thoughts up and put them in my bag. I wasn’t stealing your mind; I was just hiding it from curious onlookers. Your vulnerability made you an easy target for most, but I was there to protect you. I patted the bag and made my way home. On my journey, your thoughts were shaken and twisted, and once home, I was left with an intricate ball of thoughts that I couldn’t unfurl and didn’t understand. Carefully, I placed them in a box.

With a box of thoughts on my shelf, I sat and waited for you to find me. It took a while, but you whispered your way into my heart. Still a stranger, I felt that I had something that belonged to you. Your muddled thoughts were still safe in my home, and I was ready to return them. However, something stopped me from doing so. I had seen the hurt, and I had felt the pain. Maybe your thoughts had not been lost, but you had thrown them out? How could I know?

One night, the moon was shining bright; I decided that it was time. I knew you well and liked you a lot. I sighed and grabbed the box. Uncertain, I bit my lip while I pushed it to you? You grinned and opened the lid. The surprise on your face is something I will never forget. The content of the box was a neat train of thought. They had spread out in the dark. Confusion and curiosity got the best of you. Gently you ran a finger across the past, then, with two hands, you lifted it out of the box, looked at me, and greedily devoured it all.

What would happen next? Would you run, or would you stay? Would you tell and scream and cry? Would you simply ask me why? I braced myself for anything. But then your empty eyes filled with emotions. “You saved my mind, you healed my thoughts,” you stuttered. I shrugged and nodded.

(I can’t sleep. Too much pain… Sorry to bother you with weird writings)

Sensory overkill

You wrote love on my skin. Tracing the words with your tongue. At your mercy, I ceased to analyse and to overthink.

Your fingers played a symphony on my body. Eliciting foreign sounds. Expert moves, bringing me to the brink.

And when you entered me and joined us at the core, you stole my breath. Eyes wide open. I was blind. Did I even exist?

Sensory overload. Your sweat raining down on me became a sweet torture; I licked it up, I couldn’t resist.

Like a wave, you moved back and forth. I followed, unable to let you go. Go. Stay. Come back. You were driving me insane.

I was drowning in the darkness of your eyes, moaning, forgetting to swim. If I emerged, I would never be the same.

Hoarse whispers, muffled cries. Arched backs, exhausted thighs. But you were not done. You were mine for longer, I realised with a grin.

You wrote your name on my soul that day. Rocking back and forth. Furious, intense and profound, gently marking me as yours from within.


I was found in your simplicity — the melody of your words, reflecting my sorrows. I was drowning in my self. But I was found. By you. In our dreams.

And you appeared when I had not been looking for you. Embraced my silent soul. Saved the remains of my heart. Gave my mind a voice. Your voice. Our voice.

I was found in your serenity. Your calm fed me the answers. My flaws filled your holes. And the imperfection gave me wings. You. Us. We drifted away.

I feel you on my skin, the touch so gentle, yet so strong. It leaves traces of you, of us – within. I cannot wash you off; it is where you belong. You. Me. Us.

I was found in your everything. All of me poured into all of you. Parts of you became parts of me. An explosion – covered in the essence of you. Of me. Of us.

Time ran fast, and it almost stood still. More of the same, again and again. Not boring – our lives. A lost song. A lost love. A lost me. Found. In you. In us.

Not this… (Thoughts/ramble)

I used to be a writer… I wrote 13(!) romance novels. They can be read for free on a site called Wattpad. They are about same-sex couples and are unedited.

I used to be a poet… I published 2 books and countless poems on this site. I haven’t written a good poem in a while.

I used to write short stories. Touching words.

These days, I am only whining about the pain in my shoulder. About my fragile state of mind.

I am not sure why I can’t write anymore. I am trying. I am trying to find routines. I am trying to be inspired through music (which always worked before). I read a lot. I even tried working with prompts. I want to write, but nothing with value fills my pages. And I don’t want to pressure myself, but I wonder: if I don’t write, what am I doing here?!

I don’t want to waste space and time. But I am. I am melodramatic again, sorry.

Just take a look at the short stories category… There are some touching gems in there.

I am sad. Tired. In pain. Exhausted…

Sorry about this.


Every tear I never cried
Covered my skin like a veil
Hidden pains swallowed and bottled up.
On forgotten islands, I screamed in vain
Echoes were fading over land and sea
Silent sufferings were forever stitched onto my soul.