Fear
I know your struggle.
I am your struggle.
Not a scream, but a whisper
you took for your own voice.
I show you what you might lose
before you even hold it.
I live in the cracks of your safety,
in the breath you hold, when afraid to be seen.
I offer protection - but only from yourself.
I wear the mask of caution - but I answer only to control.
I feel like love
when I keep you small enough to be accepted.
I sound like wisdom
when I talk you out of trying.
I am the neck
that turns your head away from your own becoming.
I wrap myself around your dreams
until you shrink enough to survive -
but never enough to live.
You trust me,
because I never leave,
never change,
never ask you to.
Don't look into my eyes.
Love
You search me in the sky,
but I live where you don’t dare looking.
The reflection in the mirror
you forget to clean.
You call me by names that aren’t mine:
expectation,
attachment,
sacrifice.
Trapped in heavy chains of misconception,
you seek me in the places
I have never been.
Your pain,
so unbearable,
covers me in lava of your grief.
Misunderstood,
unseen,
I only break free when you shatter,
to mend with gold
the pieces of your heart.
Breathing beneath your skin,
burning behind your eyes,
I’m always there.
Always have been.
Always will be.
Pain
Why do you cling to me?
I make you suffer. I carve fear into your bones.
I burn, I linger, I settle deep where no one can see.
You recognize me in others and call it compassion.
You find me within and call it fate.
I live inside you, waiting.
And when you forget you are human —
I remind you.
You need me.
Without me, there is no beauty. No art. No life.
I shape your longing, your hunger, your fight.
Even in your joy, I leave a shadow.
I give you meaning —
even if that meaning is running away from me.
An Actress
A child sits at a sewing machine. She's only fourteen, maybe fifteen.
She has clear instructions. What to make. How. The minimum before she
is allowed to leave.
She dreams to be an actress one day.
The room is packed. Rows and rows of bodies, all bent over machines.
More than 200. Sleepless eyes. Hungry stomachs.
The sound of stitching, endless. Like rain on thin metal. Sharp.
A storm of needles. Hundreds of them, piercing cheap cotton. Over and
over.
One day, very soon, the fabric will make its way West. Worn for a few
hours. Maybe a night out. Maybe by an actress. For a photo.
Then discarded.
Buried under mountains of waste on some distant shore. Left to rot,
like the hands that made it.
A Woman and the Sea
A woman stands barefoot in the sea. The water is cold. Goosebumps rise
on her legs.
She holds her phone, waiting for the wave. Tries to capture the
perfect shot - the feet, the water, the moment.
A sudden rush of anxiety. What if she drops her phone?
Life would stop.
She steps back onto the sand, returns to her sunbed.
She edits. Crops the video. Turns it into a boomerang. A dozen
filters.
The water is bluer. The sand is smoother. The "perfect" four seconds.
Sun rests warm on her skin. Breeze carries the scent of salt. The
world is perfect around her,
but she will never notice.
It can't be coptured. And thus - it's irrelevant.
For the rest of the day she will be watching who watched her.
A Man in a Suit
There is a man in a suit. He stands on the platform, anxiously
checking his watch. His train is delayed. He will be late for work,
but he cannot afford it.
Emails to send. Meetings to lead. Deals to close. Every minute worth
money.
His collar tightens. His pulse quickens. His jaw clenches.
Next to him, a woman. A buggy in front of her. A child screaming
inside.
The train will be packed. He knows this. He is determined to get on.
The train arrives. The doors open. People spill out. Others push in.
He moves. Sharp elbows, rigid shoulders. He presses forward, past the
woman, past the buggy. She can wait. She must. Probably just going for
a walk.
He squeezes inside. Heat. Breath. The stale smell of morning rush. He
turns to face the door. The woman has not moved. She did not even try.
Their eyes meet.
The doors close.