Poem

Now I can feel
I am half of a whole—
the one who wakes
from dreaming.

I am the sunglasses worn
after smoking weed,
the raven blinded
by its own rage.

Yes,
I am only a prosthetic mask
laid over my soul.

And still you ask
who I am?

I am just a grey shade
of uncomfortable silence.

​

29 March, 2020

Whole city sings like—

Love is like porcelain
under blue-pink light.
The drunk, she scratched his throat to say,
"You are my comfort."

​

50 years—celebration of victory.
Secretary reveals numb shits.
Street beggars stand with flower caps.
Moral compass preaches against his male ego.

​

Industrialist's loyal wife
gets pregnant
by his driver.

The head of police comes back
with a headache.
Husband's scandals with models
overshadow everything.
Minister's wife hangs herself.

Absurdity.
Treachery.
Winter becomes summer.
Red-green flag flies on his car.
Murky midnight.

Miss pageant saw her monogamous lover
kissing his PS.
Ancestors curse us
lying on grass.

He is announced bankrupt
while laying in five-star hotel.
National hero gets a divorce letter.
Capitalism reaches across democracy.

Teen hot girl
sells her body to sugar daddies,
claiming herself self-dependent.
Social media influencers
become victims of slavery.

Emptiness?
That I feel,
saw in her eyes.

The young writer?
Would be a billionaire's wife.
Forget people like her keys—
last summer?

The academic girl got her love of life
from drunk-night group sex.

Industrial revolution?
She is dying from abortion.

Now it's going—
and going on…

21 December, 2021

Setting sun
darkest hours
lying lonely on bed
fever with loud music
trying to avoid
our rotten past. Seems like rust
failed several times.

I said I am not nostalgic one
I am someone expensive
A larger than life
I am the lady who blooms with flow
A wild flower -
nothing stops my rhythm.

In mid-September
Metropolitan produces 

poverty
memories become rust
your civility, my pride
your fame, my family
we fall apart
since then and yet—
we are living thousands miles away from us
remembering some ashes
ending up being drunk.

Next morning
your birthday
you are so close to death
hangover—
your wife found my photograph on your phone screen
got some letters you've scratched for me
with your reddish fingers
she cried out mess
she fought like fire to live, failed.
the homemaker, dreamt about a life
what else you can do?
Wheezing
leaving out?

Mid-March
years ago there was nothing we can exchange without

our heart
we dived, we lost into us

all over us.

On 21st, we wake up and realise

we don't owe anything
we are dead
as our hearts don't belong to us
they have their owners
mine is yours and yours is mine
though those will always collide
till death the two hearts will bleed.

​

September rain
on us.
Eastern winter leaves falling on us.
Midnight drunks
sitting under a dark umbrella with the purple flame.
My hair is blowing in the wind,
crossing your face, smelled by your nose,
softly kissed by your lips.

My unheard loneliness
in a whole bowl—
I was vomiting.

Through capitalism,
the enigma of your eyes gazed upon me.
All left me confused:
should I taste your lips,
or should I keep burning inside?

I stopped for a while.
Northern wind closed my eyes.
Your fingertips on my painted nails,
my lips, your lips—apocalypse.
Idealism
fell into my lap.

Sharpness of your teeth
reflects on my neck.
With you—
my world is born anew.

Some windy winter
she blooms wild,
buying a pinkish hairbow;
she makes a lavender cupcake
for her lover.

Someday,
in some December,
she highlights her hourglass body
to cherish your misogyny.

She blows flowers
on your flesh
to celebrate her femininity.

For some winter nights
she turns into a human doll—
aphonic
and rhythmic.

3 December, 2022

What I love most?
Enduring?
Maybe.

Revenge will make me mad.
Pain will find me again.
It is better to erase.

Make me hypnotized once again—
I want to forget all of you.

Take me to a hill;
from there I'll embrace my death,
as I like to be seen.

Death?
I’ll love dying 
I can see all the illusions of life.
After death.

I'll appear in the air;
I'll walk in the wind around you,
so close to your heart.

Whether I exist or not—
forever I'll flow into your head.
I will be lost in the wilderness.

Isn't it more adventurous than living?
Yes, it is.

Hence, I am dying
till death appears.

​

11 November, 2020

​

Since I was a kid,
I’ve always been drawn to the graveyard.

I could feel the silence of life there—
the way it settles on the stones,
the way it listens.

I’d stand among the graves,
wondering what it would be like
when someone I love is gone—
to feel that emptiness,
the weight of losing them.

But now, in this quiet,
I feel it without losing.
The ache of absence
is already here,
filling me in ways
I never asked for.

And maybe—
maybe it’s time to let go,
to forget the shadow of you
that lingers too close.

Or maybe I don’t want to.

​

24 February, 2025
Stockholm

November is knocking at my window,
with Daphne blooming in her quiet glow.
Candles are melting down
beside the grey silk curtain.
From the corner of my bed,
I watch the Baltic Sea
frozen,
still,
a mirror of everything I can’t say.

This city
a cathedral of cold glass and silence
holds me in its arms
without hesitation,
without question.

The air is heavy with Dior,
the fragrance of my beauty room
where I sleep each night
with blurred, broken memories
pressing against the walls.

This winter—
I don’t want to watch Bergman films.
I’m longing for a book
a living one.
Something slow,
something that breathes.
I want to turn the pages one by one,
to pause,
to feel the weight of metaphor,
the ache of unshed tears,
the echo of unfinished conversations.

I don’t want to be pulled away
by my baby's soft, endless needs.
I want silence
absolute,
uninterrupted—
the kind I crave
when I crave you
whole.

I want the darkness of northern winter
to rise like black water
and take me
out of this world,
into the quiet beneath it.
I want to go
to the lowest of my low.

This winter,
I want to feel alive
like a woman in her twenties
with no weight on her name.
I want to be free:
free from myself,
free from my reflection,
free from the sweetest prison
of existing.


September, 2025
Stockholm