Darkest light

Original draft of this third poem of the day – including spelling mistakes and my poor handwriting. Written on a napkin while making lunch. (May 24th, 2020)

Touching skins


Kissing souls

Seeping into one

Soaking in each other


Touching skins


Kissing souls

Drowning in fantasies

Creating eternal/ ethereal memories


I could die in your eyes

I could float in your arms


Touching skins


Kissing souls

Desperate connection

Bleeding lust


Dire thoughts

Floating darkness

– our kind of light.

come on, go!

I let you get to me

And now I am broken.

Do you know I wasn’t happy there?

In the shower, in the kitchen,

I was never myself

And I hate this feeling

I was never my own.

I said we’re done

But you came back to catch me.

Did I ask to be saved?

Quit playing these games.

And if I crawl home

Hiding underneath the street lamps

My sins will be concealed.

I reek of all the things I didn’t do.

Strange times – it could be worse.

On a leash, in a line

Almost forty years and my demise is near.

Carved in skin – made a of love

Falling off a mountain…

I will fly. I swear I will.

My last remaining decisions.

Who knew?

beautiful beginning

The clouds gathered above my head,

I shook my hair, refusing to accept that I was mad

And the rain began soaking my naked body

My nose rose in defiance; yes, I was that snotty

Roots grew out of my feet, keeping me steady

One, two, three. I felt it in my bones; I was ready

I wasn’t drowning; I was nurtured and growing

And time and space was slowing (down)

My head fell back, and my arms rose against the gloomy sky

Fuzzy images behind my eyes; suggestive lies

Victorious at last, my skin was washed clean

Memories of who I was and where I’d been

My unquiet mind was reeling from this new emotion

Life passing by in slow motion

A new seed was beginning to grow

Goodbye. Hello.


Written for Peckapalooza (Aaron), who posted a prompt on his blog, The Confusing Middle. I don’t want to commit to writing for every prompt, but this is a beginning, and sometimes, prompts help to get the creative juices flowing.

Head over to his blog and take a look. I think you will like it. Also, if you want, write for the prompt ‘beginning’ and share it in the comments.

I hope you are well—lots of love to you.

make this nightmare go away (short fiction)

I woke up with a racing heart and ragged breath. I looked around myself to ground my weary mind. I had that dream again. The dream in which I saw my mother get on the bus and leave me behind. Except, it wasn’t a dream; it was a memory that haunted me since I was a child.

I was a grown-up woman, doing what grown-ups do. I worked forty hours every week – sometimes more. I met friends, went for drinks or dinner with them. Occasionally, I fell in love. More often, I craved the physical connection a body could offer. A physical connection was easy to find, love – not so much.

Someone was stirring next to me, and I couldn’t remember his name. I should have felt uncomfortable, but I didn’t. Waking up next to someone I didn’t know was not uncommon for me. I would not rely on him to distract me from my childhood memories. I didn’t trust him. He didn’t feel like the protection or safety I needed; the nameless man next to me was only another warm body to make me forget the longing and the emptiness that spread through my body like cancer. The older I got, the more cells were infected. “Go back to sleep, honey,” his gravelly voice mumbled. I snorted. Those were the exact same words my mother had said before the doors of the bus closed behind her. Or was it my imagination playing tricks on me?

I pushed the duvet off my body and let my feet connect with the hardwood floor. I needed something real, something that earthed me. Goosebumps rose on my naked skin. I couldn’t say if it was the lingering memory of the reoccurring dream, or if it was the chill from the starry night sneaking in through the opened window. I decided that it didn’t matter.

There were so many little thoughts every day, and most of them didn’t matter. Once in a while, I felt as if I didn’t matter either. My weekdays were filled with responsibilities, work, and duties. There was no room for anything else. My weekends were wasted with alcohol and casual affairs who did not fill the voids I was looking to fill. I didn’t allow my mind to come to terms with old wounds. But the mind and the soul knew that I needed to take better care of myself; hence the dreams.

I was afraid to be abandoned and to be left behind. It was easier to keep everyone at arm’s length and stay distant. It was more comfortable to pretend that I was happy than to lower my masks and show the real me. In truth, I had no idea what happiness felt like. Happiness with a partner. Someone to share my life and my fears with. Once in a while, there had been someone special, but we weren’t in touch a lot anymore. Different live paths had led in different directions. And maybe my expectations were too high? All my life, I had been searching for love, for a person who made me feel safe. Perhaps I was just too blind to see him? What if I was too weak to hold on to the one who mattered most?

I took my phone from the nightstand, and the illuminated display showed the loneliness of my life. A couple of shallow notification that I wasn’t interested in; I pushed them all away with a couple of swipes.

I padded down to the bathroom to relieve my bladder and splash some water in my face, then I took my robe from the hook attached at the door and pulled it around me. I didn’t want to go back to the stranger in my bed, but I didn’t want to wake him up and throw him out in the middle of the night, either. In the living room, I sat down in my favourite chair next to the window. I could see the sparkling dots on the dark firmament.

“Are you there?” I sent a message to the person who meant more than most to me. I didn’t expect a response at this late hour; I just wanted to make sure that he would think of me when he woke up. I was about to put the phone down when it vibrated in my hand. My heart went like mad when I saw his face on the display, but I accepted the call anyway.

“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries; he knew me too well. I nodded my head and added an affirmative sound.

“Are you alone?” I hated that my reply was negative, but I answered truthfully nonetheless.

“Is he asleep?”

“Yes. I am in the living room watching the stars.” I almost whispered.

“Okay.” I heard some rustling as if he was getting out of bed, footsteps followed, and then some more rustling. “I will put you on speakerphone. Just so that you know if the sound is different.” And then I heard the first chords of a piano song I wasn’t familiar with. Like a soothing blanket, it washed over me. There were no words, just music, and it was for my ears only. The sounds alleviated some of the chills from my body, and I grabbed a blanket from the couch to wrap myself in it. I nestled deep in the blanket and yawned. I was tired; it surprised me how much so. I yawned noisily again.

“Sleep tight, baby girl. I will always be there for you.” I smiled. Maybe I had found someone safe, but the thought became frayed as the music faded, and I drifted off to a dreamless sleep again. Maybe tomorrow, I would remember those words, or maybe they became a part of a distant memory too.

too much love will kill me

There are butterflies in my mind, urging me to run.

You love me too much, too deeply; and I run.

Scared to be seen, scared to understand; and I run.

Out of breath, out of logical thoughts, but I run.


But your love for me feels so real, as if we were the only lovers in this storm.

But your love for me feels so good, as if you pull me into a safe place.

But your love for me feels so right, as if you are the part that makes me whole.

But your love for me is a lie, a fantasy that will never be.


Your sugar words won’t feed me.

Your romantic ideas won’t inspire me.

Your intensity just scares me.

You’re loving me too much, and it will be my death.


And I run and I run.

I run away from your thieving heart.

I run away from your perfect mind.

I run away from you until I can hide in your arms, again.


Dark moon

Butterfly feelings in my chest

Stains on my satin soul

Rain in a bottle

And I am coming undone.


I cannot sleep again

Your pieces in me

Screaming and kissing

Make me feel good!


Twisted ropes around my thoughts

These words don’t work

I lost you on the other side of the screen

Always too far.


Hidden in my bedroom

This is not me

Layers of shadows

Reasons for light.


You are a breeze on my skin

Protecting me from the voices

Waves of emotions

Exploding fireworks.


Gone in sin

Follow me into the night

Sweating and swearing

Pretend you don’t have a choice.


Magic pull

Burning fires

Tonight there are no liars

Only lovers in the full moon.


years went by (a to z)

Youth and beauty had faded. Her shaking hands were caressing an old photograph; it showed a young woman laughing happily, and a handsome man who looked at her, absolutely in love.

Her lips were quivering, and tears welled up in her eyes, she remembered him well. He had been the one who got away; her one true love. She didn’t know what had become of him; lives had interfered. Responsibilities had driven them apart. He had been married, and she had been too. They both had had children and lives apart. There was never a chance for them to be a real couple. And yet, they had met.

For a week, they had been able to live their lives together, deeply and madly in love. Six days that had been spent on a Mediterranean Island in an all-inclusive resort. Just the two of them. She couldn’t remember what they had done during these days, if there had been adventures or visits; her memory was foggy from old age. But she knew that they had made love. A lot. They had connected on a special, unique level. But it had not been enough.

She looked down at the picture again an smiled a watery smile. If she had been brave, she would have fled her life to be with him, but she had not been. She had gone back to her husband and her life, and had almost disappeared in her longing heart. They had written emails and called each other late at night. But they had never met again. Less and lesser they got in touch, until they became memories in the other’s life.

Years went by, and all that was left of her life was a box with fading pictures, a couple of regrets, and the question of what would have become of her life if she had been courageous. She sighed and hid the picture in her pile again. Remembering good times was exhausting. She put the box away and shuffled to her chair. It was raining outside. The downpour became the backdrop noise of her second nap that day. In her dreams, she met him again, young and beautiful.

(I almost skipped this post. I am having a migraine and my shoulder hurts… These a to z posts were all written late at night, improvised and following an impulsive creative urge. They were not premeditated or edited. I wrote them and scheduled them for a couple of minutes after midnight, then I put my phone in airplane mode and tried to sleep. Tonight was not all that different…)

Xenophobic? Not Xander! (a to z)

On the pulpit, a man held a fiery speech. His cheeks were red; beads of sweat were slick on his forehead. He raised his fist into the air and shook it, reminding his congregation of the threat people from other countries were. They came to steal their jobs and marry their women; they came to collect their money and have their children. They came to cheat these God-fearing men out of their successes. Foreigners were liars, cheaters, criminals, terrorists. Slapping his hand down on the papers in front of him, the new Reverend warned his church to stay away from these unwanted foreigners.

Xander looked at the sunbeams illuminating the dust in the stuffy air. He counted the sweaty drops that fell from the Reverend’s face onto the pages of his sermon. Xander estimated how many women were wearing black hats, and how many men were asleep. The Reverend kept yelling his truth, spit flying out of his mouth.

Xander believed in God. He went to church every Sunday and prayed before every meal and before he went to bed. He was not a rich or intelligent man, but he was witty and street-smart. He was educated enough, although he often felt dim when people in suits were discussing politics. He scratched his chin and looked at his shiny shoes. He had cleaned them, especially for Sunday service. Xander felt uncomfortable. He was sure there had to be some truth in the Reverend’s speech, but he didn’t understand it. All he heard was a tirade of hate. Was a man of God supposed to spread hate? And were his brothers and sisters supposed to agree with this kind of disdain? Because they were, they were saying affirmative words and nodding their heads. No, Xander didn’t understand it. Xander’s stomach growled. At home, his wife was waiting with lunch, and he couldn’t wait to join her. She did not believe in Xander’s God, and yet, she prayed too. They were different from one another, but that was what made their love going strong for two decades now.

After church, Xander felt unsettled. Instead of driving straight home, he chose to go for a walk to clear his head. He passed stores and shops. They had been there for years, and it had never been an issue that the owners were mostly immigrants. The town in which they were living only existed because of foreigners. Xander lifted his hat to push his hair back and wiped the sweat from his brow. All these people were friends. They were his family. And yet, the new Reverend had called them the root of all evil. He had asked to boycott these stores, and he had admonished the congregation not to mingle with “these people.” Xander shook his head; his thoughts hadn’t become clearer, if anything, they were more muddled.

He made his way back to the church were his truck was waiting, he wanted to speak with his wife about today’s sermon and the hate that seemed to have filled the church. Miss Maria walked passed Xander; she was pushing a stroller and balancing two paper bags filled with groceries. Xander knew Miss Maria’s parents well. They were from Italy, and their hospitality knew no bounds. Xander greeted the young woman, and when she greeted back, one of her bags slipped and fell to the ground. The Reverend came closer and looked at the food displayed on the street, Xander bent down to pick it up. “Leave the sinner’s food, brother Xander. She does not deserve to eat our food.” People had gathered, staring at the scene. The new Reverend held a lot of power, and Xander’s neighbors didn’t move to help; it was as if they were afraid. It had never been like this. A cloak of hate was slowly downed over Xander’s hometown.

“I am sorry, Miss.” Xander apologized and helped the woman up. “It’s quite alright, Mister Xander,” she replied, but her eyes betrayed her sadness, and maybe she did not feel safe anymore. It made Xander sad as well. He put the paper bag back in the young woman’s arm and lifted his hat to say goodbye.

The Reverend approached Xander, wanting to poison him with his views, but Xander excused himself, fled to his truck, and drove off. He believed in God, and he thought that his God loved every man and woman just the same. His God was good and understanding.

Agitated from the happenings that Sunday morning, Xander chose to have a drink in his living room. On a sideboard stood a small calendar, it showed the word of the day: “Xenophobia.” Xander didn’t know what it meant and made a mental note to get back to that complicated word after lunch. His wife, Mahbube, had prepared a Tunisian specialty, his favorite, spicy Couscous.

Written words – a wordless poem (a to z)

Wild roses losing their petals in the wind;

reWind the future, left forever in the past.

Watery tears, falling on deaf ears

Wilted blossoms, forgotten women.

Wide-open are the eyes of them

Weary and blind – wet from fright.

Wasted wars, too many died.

Wearing paper crowns made of fire

Weaknesses ignored, wilderness rediscovered

Wild at heart, we want to run – be free,

Walking toward the cut-down willow trees.

Wailing, staring at the cracked walls in our fragile minds

“Well, I do not know if this was ever real.”

Was it a dream, will we ever breathe?

Wondrous promises, delightfully unaware

Whispered secrets blown into thin air.

White flowers on coffins and graves

We wanted to be strong but wasted away,

Washing off our sorrow with the ashes of our sins.

Worried silence. Shhhh. Don’t say a word. It stays all within.