Womanhood Or Something Like That

 

Brought up by semi-modern women,

Values mixed with prosperity and flavor of obedience.

We keep trying to fulfill what we are expected to by the society and parental hopes.

We are being told that we should be fighters yet gentle with a strong feel of being someone’s home

And we should not stop supporting those we call other half.

…

And here we are so damaged and so broken, feeling lost,

From all the teachings we received, we were never taught to seek what we truly desire.

I keep hearing my mother’s voice that I should be so independent,

That I should always have my own money, home, ambitions until I meet the one.

Then I should settle, forget about what I strive to achieve and give birth to children

As my life is not yet so bright, not so deep.

Yet I am so confused from all this wisdom what should I be – a homemaker and achiever.

What this live is supposed to be?

And it clicked me after years of depression, tons of therapy and tears shed

That I have never been asked the question – What exactly you want to be?

Religion put into the picture, extension of my parents what makes the life good,

Never taught to choose what it right, just what should make them proud.

As young women we struggle – be a good girl, be smart, don’t provoke attention,

Stay invisible, don’t push too hard and yet we are expected to be pure perfection –

Look at them, it’s not that hard.

…

So we break ourselves quietly, framed into the shapes they demand.

We swallow grief in the dark, wipe off the evidence only to return to the stage.

Taught to pour tea with trembling hands, to bleed and smile through it.

Told that agony is noble, that silence is our inheritance.

When we shatter into pieces, they scoff—weak, hysterical, ungrateful, not pretty enough.

They want us clever yet not defiant,

Driven but never to go in life too far—

Soft enough to soothe, dumb enough to forget what they truly meant,

Numb enough to never fall in waves of rage - not so ladylike to admire.

When the loneliness wraps its bony hands around our ribs,

We whisper our guilt into the mirror, ashamed of needing more.

Some of us chain ourselves to strangers, mistaking it for rescue.

Some of us remain untouched, too haunted to trust.

…

No one tells us—

You don’t owe them your silence.

You don’t have to vanish to be loved.

You weren’t made to fix what’s broken in others.

You weren’t born just to carry tradition like a curse.

But by the time we learn this,

We've already been reshaped— cut down, dulled, rewired.

Our identities surgically edited to match the script of “the real woman.”

Now we drift somewhere between versions of half truth and a lie—

Some polished and pretty, others barely stitched together.

And the ones holding the pen keep rewriting our parts,

Claiming it’s truth, claiming it’s fate.

We walk in borrowed skin - costumed like clowns in someone else’s circus,

Trapped in lives we have never subscribed for,

Called by names that never felt to belong.

Still we lie next to people who never saw us.

Still we whisper in fear—What the fuck is wrong with me?

And the truth is so cruel and so clear—

They never gave us the space to become real.

Only carved us into something they could hold,

Something easy to OWN.

The Fall We Chose

 

I saw you spiraling down and I get to like you,

This insanity is fucked up and it drowns me like a magnet.

You asked me to help you yet I managed to destroy you even further;

You asked me to save you yet my powers were no match to your craze.

…

Like the Joker and Harley Queen we bear only chaos,

Experimental love I call it – project to fix.

Such broken people I cannot resist,

Your trembling voice is like hypnotizing song

Taking over my clear mind, another version of me emerges.

I lose myself in the heat of your madness,

And in your ruins, I build my home.

Your scars speak louder than your words,

While I listen to you feeling like a fool in love with pain.

Is this love or another version of my wrongly placed sick devotion?

Two shadows clinging to the fire they lit.

We complete each other like a Ying and Yang

You scream - I echo; you shatter - I bleed instead of you.

We are mirrors cracked from the same fury,

Misplaced pieces put together by unintentional situation,

Raging souls who never learned what gentle meant.

We make graves of our promises – so unhealthy yet beautiful to witness,

Digging ourselves deeper with every night.

I say I want out of this madness —

And in fear I see how your eyes beg for the burn.

We romanticize this toxic frenzy ready to lost ourselves,

We call it passion so we don’t have to say it’s a trauma.

You touch me like a drug you hate – I am not a tranquilizer,

But a repulsive need to make you sane again.

You alter your chemistry with me and I let you,

I am the junkie for your lies; I buy them every time I hear this angelic voice

I realized it hurts less than breathing alone.

Are we never meant to heal, aren’t we?

…

Now I don’t look back, and you cannot reach out.

What we had rest in silence - still unnamed, still unburied.

I allow your ghost to sleep in my bed when the nights are cold,

Your soft breath dancing gently on my neck, whispering waves of heated blames.

You never forgave me that I kept your madness like a souvenir—

Pressed between pages I cannot open without bleeding – this damn book I wrote about us.

Love didn’t save us – it was never meant to be forever.

It only starved us slow until we fade to black.

We fed it our broken pieces until nothing was left and yet we tried to keep it alive - whatever it was we are no more under its control.

Even though I don’t hate you

I still hope you never find peace in anyone else.

We are never meant to heal – separate or together – the cycle will not end…

 

Unmade

Let me ransack your mental warehouse of memories,

Like a mindless thief, I am looking for that particular piece of me.

Stolen moments, put in the golden vault of hidden treasures

I live in an alternated reality.

…

I woke up with the sense of lack, something out of place

Left in darkness, no one around me.

My head is spinning, no familiarity.

I am looking at the mirror – the face is mine and yet I feel something is missing.

Note left on the table: ‘The pleasure was mine, thanks for the sliver of you’.

I can smell your perfume on me – who are you mysterious person?

Why did you steal from me?

…

You slipped through the time and space like a whisper,

Your fingerprints pressed into my dreams.

I can feel you presence as if a quiet mumble is trying to explode.

I retrace every phantom step, desperate for a clue—

What did you take that I can’t remember, yet deeply feel?

My thoughts unravel like thread from a torn seam,

Each memory probed, yet none reveals your face or name.

Was it joy or was it pain, was it both you left behind so engrained in my every cell?

Or was it something purer and precious, impossible to replace?

…

Now I haunt my own life like a ghost in rewind,

Suspended between who I was and who I am now.

You didn’t just steal what belonged to me—

You rewrote the map I used to know somehow.

If I find you, what would I say?

Would I ask for return, or beg you to stay?

…

I will not plead—I’ll hunt you like the sickness I feel – a tear into your dreams until you bleed.

You split my soul and wore it like badge of honour.

Now I am the hunter and you are the prey - no more shadows—I drag you through the mud.

Each step is a new wound; each word is a steel blade.

I am not the dreamer you escaped—I am what is left

When humanity decays and can’t be unmade.

Now I am speaking to the dark walls—maybe they remember you.

I press my ear to the thick silence, hoping it shares your name.

Even my shadow recoils, sensing the war in me.

I will rewrite our past nightly, each version more and more insane.

I try to see your face in every reflection,

Yet it is still blurry, this is all what’s left.

Now everything tilts under the weight of your sweet theft.

I no longer live—I just repeat.

My world loops like a broken reel - this isn’t memory—it’s well done manipulation.

There is no end to this search—only descent.

Each clue is a well crafter trap, every answer so painfully untrue.

I used to be whole and now I’m a question that always leads back to you.

…

You stitched your name into my veins and now I hum it when I bleed.

The walls blink when I speak of you,

And the all clocks stop to listen – immersed in screams and agony.

I swallowed the key to our past,

But it rattles every time I breathe.

The wallpaper peels back with your smile— you are in the drywall watching me sleep.

I found your hands growing from my spine,

They clap when I cry, they beg for more and I oblige.

The bed is full of sadness and perfume— you left me here, didn’t you?

I dance with shadows that wear your face,

I feed them sugar, glass, and static noise.

They whisper that you never left with clues of what you took.

They keep saying I am lucky.

They say it is magic born from the ugliness of the circus I am living in.

…

Am I insane or just awake where no one should be?

The voices speak in riddles, but they know my name.

My thoughts echo back with different endings — some happy some truly deranged.

Sometimes I swear I see myself watching me from afar.

What if the thief was never real… just the unstable part of me I let slip free?

Rough And Ugly

 

Another night under the dim moonlight, I took a stroll to calm my madness

To claim what I felt lost - what was stolen or gifted, I was not sure anymore.

Cobblestones ahead of me, darkness gently hugging the body,

Wind softly holding the weary hands.

The restless of my mind is exhausting

Playing scenes long forgotten,

Voiced by people muted from the songs I play.

…

I let them conquer my thoughts, I let them run wild

And then I strike back with confidence I thought I never had.

This is just my overstimulated mind - They are no longer here, my soul is safe.

Overthinking is my worst trait, reliving old pain from time to time

Just to remind me I am not the one I used to be.

I enjoy the pain I inflict myself like a shameless act, a punishment of once being weak.

I love the safeness of the night, I can show my demons, I let them run wild.

I am losing my sanity and put myself back – we are all doing it;

There is no denial – I enjoy the taste of my weakness – sometimes bitter, sometimes sweat.

The silence is the mirror of my thoughts – so destructive, raging like sea storm.

These sick conversations held ages ago, accompanied by grief and betrayal

A dance of cruelty – I to them and them to me.

We live a morally grey lives – we are not villains and yet we cannot be heroes even in our own fairy tales.

We are broken with the desire to brake those closest to us, so that we are not alone – misery loves company.

We are so dedicated to the cause of being with cut wings, unable to fly out of the grim situations we have created.

We play victims yet we are the cruelest executors, carrying the “justice” on our filthy lips.

We are so damaged, annihilated emotionally; craving “salvation” of who we truly are.

We are so ugly when alone yet so shiny when others are around.

Duality is our first nature, theater with masks Venetian style.

Our souls feel so ancient – culturally educated yet destructively primitive – godlike beings.

We create, we destroy, we build and we tear down as if it is not a big deal.

…

Possessed by old delusions and hate, these empty streets feel so foreign, I am undoubtedly lost…

Should I give in into the old habits or should I fight a constant battle – the old me or the new one to prevail.

I am so tired of this inner conflict, I feel so dizzy every now and then

This inner strive for survival is so unnecessary and yet I feel obliged to fight.

…

Cobblestones, dark night, alone with no regrets,

Grinning smile, predatory eyes – this is the final form of my emotional strain.

I am the monster and the ethereal being – light and darkness

Neither good nor bad – just a human in its weakest state

Seconds before calling my demons back inside,

Before hiding all the pain and happiness just to stay a few more days peacefully ALIVE.

And then the cycle will repeat in self-destruction and self-rebuilding countless more times.

The Song That Never Was

 

You and I — two opposing worlds,

Locked in a silent power struggle,

But for the soul of the art we so desperately try to make.

...

You were furious when the song played differently than you imagined,

Each off-note of mine crashing against your careful harmony.

Your spirit is gentle, measured —

And yet, around you, I shrink under the pressure of control.

What weakens you — sounds unpredictability — is where I thrive.

Enough with the discord — let’s return to the page,

and bleed these thoughts onto something tangible.

...

There you are — tucked into the brightest corner of this faded space.

You once told me, “I can’t write in such dullness,”

And yet you keep coming  again and again.

I curled in the shadows of the same room, release the weight I’ve carried alone —

My darkness sinking deeper into the faded daylight.

Maybe this time we will find agreement — between your clean words and my frayed expressions.

I chose the voice of darkness while you opted for the light – no surprise.

And in this attic — where time pauses —

We let the words spill, without shame – rough and mellow, onto the same worn page we called poetry.

...

I saw you — radiant, like a truth never spoken aloud,

And yet I drifted toward you like falling dust pulled by a gravity I still refuse to name.

We orbit each other — two artist lost in the melody we never learned —

Who is the flame burning for applause, and who is the rust clinging to memory of pride?

Your quiet presence slices through the air —

Your jaw tight, your spine unyielding against this collapsing moment.

Near you, I become unfinished — yet somehow, you read what I refuse to reveal.

I summon fog to shield myself but you move through it effortlessly,

As if my vanishing act was never convincing.

I wear composure like a mask, each of your silent glances framed and buried.

Don’t look away — your gaze still carries everything your silence dares not speak.

You and I — two echoes stitched together, two verses searching for a chorus that will not arrive.

You are earthbound — constant, seeking clarity.

I remain undefined — watching from above, not to escape, but to see from where I cannot be seen.

We speak no words,

But this room — our unfinished stage — hears it all.

Here, we revise each other’s truths without ever finishing the edits.

We lie beautifully — every sentence rehearsed,

Every glance dressed in meaning we never meant to wear.

Remnants of what is better left buried — yet never truly gone.

...

Another draft, another painful moment -

We fight, we write, we try to harmonize.

Again, the lyrics feel unresolved — just like us.

One of us needs to anchor, to define, to possess.

The other just wants to move freely, untethered.

My independence rebels against your protection.

Another clash. Another refusal to compromise.

I stay in my corner, alone — the lyrics finally done,

But the song is a true evidence of another botched attempt.

We are not a good creative match — no matter how often we try to prove otherwise.

The Song Beneath Our Skin

 

You and I – worlds apart yet so close;

Distance cannot keep the minds apart

Lonely nights, anxious days,

Trapped inside building made of glass,

Are we going to survive the carnage of the boring days

And stay sane for the art we conjure when darkness falls?

…

Drunk from the stars I open my white sheet

Ready to take the pen with my trembling fingers,

If it is a music - let it be heavy soften by harplike sound.

Guitar riffs battle with the tender tune – dance between a brute force and a mellow touch…

Where does it ends?

You are starting with the song so slow yet relevant to me,

As if you are afraid that I might hear the pain hidden behind the strings pulled so perfectly

But still here we are…

Beneath the gentle touch of your rough fingertips, I come strong

I am turning it into the darker piece – my guitar strings tightening the artistic grip,

Let’s rise it up a notch – a bit sharper, strummed even unrepentant as if I am possessed by something else.

Can’t you feel the fire burning up inside me – creation vs creator; battle between two titans?

Are we giving up our souls to the beauty of this midnight creativity, fully engulfed by our inner fears unleashed to roam freely the room?

Or are we keep pretending that we are unhappy ”artists” unable to create?

We are so undoubtedly consumed by those choruses, the air quivers – we have gone beyond.

Note by note we spiral into distortion – pulling these chants from very skin and bones!

Riff by riff until we are out of breath with fingers bloodied from this melody war.

And here we are again – You and I – striking another chord – a refrain that roars thought the sweetness of the room

Before dragging it back to the hollow world of grey walls.

…

Hush follows as it should, you are tired, fingers lifted from the magic harp -

Ready for goodbye.

I am sitting quietly on the piano ready to play the forbidden lullaby.

The piece is still unfinished, notes left unplayed.

I am leaving the sounds of the lower octaves to echo because unlike you my song is finished -

A bit darker yet deliberately incomplete…