Morning rose before the sun
with warnings, noise, and heavy words.
Buses brushed past fragile space,
laughter cut where silence lived.
Hands reached when they should not,
eyes looked away when they should have stayed.
Small kindnesses came unevenly
one chocolate, one sweet, one soft voice.
My body spoke in aches and pain,
My heart kept translating the world.
I reported. I endured. I chose calm
even when calm was not offered.
And still
I walked myself home.
I cleaned the wounds.
I ate.
I rested.
This is not...

February always feels quieter than the other months.
It doesn’t rush.
It doesn’t demand grand resolutions or loud transformations.
It simply arrives—short, soft, and a little tender.
This month reminds me that not everything needs to bloom loudly to matter.
Some days in February feel heavy.
Some mornings begin with tired bones, unspoken emotions, and small misunderstandings that linger longer than they should. Other days surprise me—with warmth, with kindness, with moments that feel like quiet...

Under the hum of flickering lights,
a pen waits, trembling in its duty.
The air smells of paper and polish,
of stories sealed in quiet ink.

A chair creaks—truth takes its seat.
Words march out, hesitant soldiers,
each one carrying a fragment
of what the heart remembers.

The officer nods, steady as stone,
eyes tracing the path of confession.
Outside, sirens bloom like restless flowers,
their petals fading into distance.

When the final line is signed,
silence folds the room in half.
Somewhere between fear...