Four Walls Without Wine

I have seen men drown

not in rivers—

but in bottles,

their hands trembling

like broken promises.

I have heard their homes—

plates clashing like thunder,

voices splitting the night,

children shrinking into corners

that forget how to breathe.

They say it is pain

that drives them to drink—

a silent ache

seeking a louder escape.

But pain is strange.

It does not dissolve in wine.

It ferments.

They drink to forget,

then become

what others wish to forget.

They pour hurt into glasses,

sip it,

spill it—

on faces, on walls, on hearts.

And the cycle—

like a cursed prayer—

repeats.

I do not know

whether to pity them,

or recoil,

or simply turn away

and seal my eyes.

Because—

I have also seen a house

without a single drop of alcohol,

and yet

intoxicated with ruin.

Four walls,

four souls,

each one erupting

like storms with no sky.

No bottle to blame.

No excuse to hold.

Only voices—

sharp, relentless,

crashing into each other

like waves that refuse the shore.

Here,

there is no false warmth of wine,

no borrowed numbness.

Only pain—

raw, unfiltered,

circulating

like poisoned air.

And I wonder—

is drunkenness

really in the bottle?

Or does it live somewhere deeper—

in wounds

that were never taught

how to heal? 

A Girl Who Grew in a Desert

I was not born in a garden.

I was born in a desert—

where words were not petals

but small stones thrown in passing.

People there did not know

that language could wound.

They spoke the way dry winds move,

sharp, ordinary, unthinking.

It was never just me

they meant to hurt.

It was simply

how they lived.

But my heart was not made

for sandstorms.

Even as a child

I could hear danger in the air,

like a bird that senses

the tremor before the earth cracks.

I watched every word,

measured every silence,

counted the ways harm

might reach me.

No gardener came

to tend the fragile plant

that had somehow grown

in the wrong soil.

They left me to the weather.

If she grows, she grows.

If she withers, she withers.

At twelve

I made my first quiet calculation:

Six more years,

I told myself.

Six years until marriage—

six years until escape.

The desert teaches children

strange mathematics.

But when the horizon came closer

I discovered another drought:

those meant to guide me

did not know the road.

So I walked through fire myself—

a small girl

carrying negotiations in her trembling hands,

trying to convince strangers

that I was worthy of a home.

For a moment

the flames parted.

A family listened.

A man almost chose me.

But new walls rose overnight:

he must be richer,

higher, brighter than the sun itself.

And the gates closed again.

Years fell like dry leaves.

I kept trying,

kept presenting my wounded heart

like a fragile offering.

Sometimes people admired it.

Sometimes they crushed it.

Each betrayal

took a small light from my chest

until the lantern inside me

burned low.

Then one day

I found someone else

standing at the edge of the same desert.

He too

had been left behind by the world.

I loved him quietly—

not because I needed a wedding,

but because I needed proof

that somewhere

two abandoned souls

could still make a small shelter

out of kindness.

Seeing him rise,

seeing him breathe again—

that became my horizon.

But time,

that old thief,

had already taken too much.

Now when my bones are tired,

when the storms have worn me thin,

the same voices that once watched me suffer

suddenly speak of marriage

as though it were a game.

They speak lightly

of a life

I spent years bleeding to protect.

They do not see

the ruins already inside me.

They do not hear

the fire still roaring in my blood.

I have crossed too many deserts

to begin another journey now.

So if the world insists

on its ceremonies and expectations,

let it walk without me.

I have carried enough.

Leave me

to the quiet

I fought my whole life

to find.

A Good Girl

I have known the ache of loneliness,

gripped iron chains so tightly

my palms learned the language of blood.

There is no one now

to whom I can loosen my voice,

no shoulder left

that does not turn to stone.

I have endured so much

that even pain grew tired of announcing itself—

my senses dulled,

my heart still awake.

This is the cost of softness.

This is the fee a girl like me pays

for holding up a mirror

when the world prefers shadows,

for showing dirt

no one wants to wash away.

I confess—

with oceans of love in my chest,

I have drowned in every relationship.

Deceived each time,

faith returned unopened.

I suffered until my body learned sickness,

yet received no love,

no chivalry,

only the careful art of abandonment.

Still, I hope the future will change its tone.

I cannot end this in sorrow—

not entirely.

Because once,

my therapist cared.

And if she were to read these lines,

I fear disappointment more than pain.

I do not want to disappoint.

That is who I am.

A good girl.

To Those Who Keep Asking

When you ask me

When will life finally settle?

what answer do you seek

for a page

even fate has not yet turned?

I do not know

what still waits in the margins—

whether certain doors will open

or remain unnamed.

That knowledge was never mine to hold.

But this much I know:

I have carried the weight

many women carry unseen—

the long patience, the careful silence,

the art of enduring without witnesses.

Happiness passed briefly,

yet sorrow learned my language.

Do not ask me to be strong.

Do not ask me to keep hoping.

Hope is born of longing,

and longing is a thing

I have gently laid down.

I once asked the Divine

for only one kindness:

that the one I chose

would choose me too.

That prayer was answered—

and it is enough.

Some answers

do not need repetition.

Hope walks easily

with lives that follow

familiar roads.

Mine has always moved

through bends and shadows,

learning differently,

loving deeply.

Yes, once—

when love first arrived,

hope stayed with me.

When I was once chosen,

it sparked again.

But now,

it has grown quiet.

So let me be.

Let my silences remain mine.

Not every life needs explaining,

not every future needs naming.

Some journeys are meant

to be lived gently,

without questions.

The Quiet Room: When Loneliness Feels Heavier Than Company

I was sitting alone in my room watching a YouTube video when a heaviness rose inside me — a kind of loneliness that wasn’t solved by the fact that my parents were in the house. I asked myself: Why do I feel lonely? There are millions who live truly alone and manage — they work, return, sleep. So why does it feel different for me?

What came next was a startling clarity: I was missing the good old days. But were those days actually good, or is the present simply heavier? What follows is a gentle attempt to unpick that feeling, to name the small losses that add up, and to suggest tiny, honest ways to make room for companionship again.

Not all loneliness is the same

Loneliness isn’t only about physical solitude. You can be surrounded by people and still feel emotionally disconnected. There’s a difference between presence and companionship. Presence is bodies in the same place; companionship is the feeling of being known, seen, and held — even for a little while.

What I realized: it’s not a person I miss, it’s the community

When the answer popped into my head — good old days — it wasn’t just about past people. It was about a style of living:

We used to meet each other in living rooms, not curated restaurants.

Community was non-virtual; it was tactile, messy, forgiving.

Pain existed then too, but there were more ways to forget it for a while — tea, shared jokes, a neighbour’s quick story.

This kind of belonging isn’t reproduced easily with likes and short messages. Social media gives us an illusion of many connections but often very few that feel real.

Why modern life teaches self-reliance — and why that can hurt

We’re taught to love ourselves, fill ourselves, and manage our emotional lives independently. In a sea of self-protective strangers, being self-sufficient is a survival skill. But constant self-reliance can become exhausting. It removes the small, ordinary gestures of mutual care that used to recharge us — an elder’s story, a friend’s midday call, a neighbor’s random help.

The paradox of being surrounded yet empty

Community shrank; networks expanded. Our social map got wider but thinner.

Myths turned into lessons. Even the old myths and family fables had a social use — lessons for being kind, stories that modeled care.

Trust got harder. When everyone looks out for themselves, trusting another person with vulnerability feels risky.

Small, practical ways to feel less alone

You don’t need dramatic changes to invite companionship back. Try tiny, repeatable acts that rebuild trust and proximity:

Invite someone for tea — not dinner, just 20 minutes.

Phone rituals: send one short voice note to one person each week.

Local rituals: notice one neighbor this week — a hello, a shared packet of sugar, a quick chat.

Memory sharing: reach out to someone from your past and reminisce.

Volunteer locally: small acts of service create real companionship without pressure.

When you feel guilty for missing the past

It’s easy to romanticize the past. The old days were not perfect. What was different was how pain was soothed — through shared space, shared stories, and a communal imagination that taught people to look after each other in small ways. Missing that is not weakness; it’s a human longing for the kind of care we once had.

A wish for a softer world

I sit in my room and wonder. What if our world carried a little more of that old togetherness — small, ordinary, human acts of looking out for each other? We’d be a little less tired, a little less hollow. Loneliness would still arrive; pain would still exist. But we would have more tools to face them — not alone, but alongside someone who knows us enough to sit quietly with our heaviness.

If you’ve ever felt this weight, know this: you’re naming something real. You’re not failing because you miss what used to be. You’re remembering a way of living that made life softer. Start small. Invite someone in for tea. Send a voice note. Tell a shared story. These things matter.

Oh, I wish I was a child again.

I wish with all my heart

that I was a little child again —

small enough to fit into someone’s arms,

light enough to be carried away from pain.

That someone would pat my back

and pull me into a warm hug

without asking what was wrong —

just knowing I needed it.

I wish my mother would take me

into her calm, all-forgiving embrace,

wrap me in her old cotton suit

and place her soft hand on my wounded leg,

balm it not just with ointment,

but with love, with care,

with kisses that reach deeper

than bones or bruises.

I wish she would look at me and say,

"You don’t have to be strong today.

I’ve got you.”

I wish my father would still believe

he could keep the monsters away —

that he could protect me

with his tired but willing hands,

stand between me and the world

like a wall that never crumbles.

I wish he feared the day I’d marry —

not with pride,

but with a sorrowful tenderness.

That he’d lie awake at night thinking,

Will the man who comes next

know what it took to raise her?

Will he love her with the same rage and gentleness

with which I fed her, taught her,

built her from my own blood and flesh?

I wish when I was sent to my aunts,

they loved me like their own —

not out of duty,

but with real, radiant affection.

That they’d whisper to each other,

“She’s going to be something,”

and I’d overhear it and believe.

I wish they saw in me

not an extra task,

but a tiny little girl

who wanted to grow up

to be just like them.

I wish my brother guided my steps —

not from ahead,

but from beside me.

That he told me,

“Sister, I’ll be your shield.

I’ll be your tutor —

and you’ll come first.

Not just in school,

but in life.”

I wish his love came unprovoked,

unconditioned.

I wish when my younger sister looked at me,

she felt reassured.

That in my eyes, she saw her future —

and knew it was safe.

That being a daughter meant being cherished,

not bargained.

That she could grow soft

and still survive.

I wish I had the same resources

my brother had —

not just money,

but permission.

Permission to dream wide,

to fail,

to try again.

I wish he sat beside me and said,

“Let me show you how to build

with what little we have —

because you are good at learning and I am

 your mentor.”

I wish when I matured,

there was a line of suitors —

not hunting for beauty,

but seeking worth.

And I wish my parents chose with care,

not out of pressure,

but pride, because I was the work of their

 life.

Because they only knew how much efforts

they've made to get me what I deserved.

I wish they saw me with the same smile,

they shower on others.

That they looked each one in the eye

and said:

“Handle gently.

This girl was raised like a prayer.

We did not hand her the world

just to watch her fall.

To keep her —

you must match the standard she’s set.

And trust me,

that is no easy task.”

That the guy who got me 

would think on his mind,

" What good I did to deserve such a girl? "

and I would have kissed him gently,

told him - that I am as normal as others,

the only reason which makes him to think 

so highly of me is that —

" I AM A LUCKY GIRL "

Warning! It's total darkness.

I sit in the dark,

not the gentle kind—

the kind that grabs your throat

and doesn’t let go.

My head’s a grenade,

ticking with rage.

Pain pulses like it owns me.

And maybe it does.

I carry a heart

weighed down with commands,

shrugged shoulders,

cold stares,

a thousand tiny betrayals

stacked like bricks on my chest.

They say God listens.

He doesn’t.

I’ve screamed till my throat tore—

nothing.

Either He’s blind,

or He just walked away.

Same difference.

Don’t talk to me about family.

They never looked close enough

to know I was breaking.

Now I look away too.

I’ll love them—sure—

but I won’t speak it.

I’ve run out of faith.

My lover?

He’s busy admiring his reflection.

I sit at the window

like a dog waiting for scraps.

Only I didn’t bite anyone.

I didn’t sin.

I just existed—

and that was enough for punishment.

I don’t care anymore.

Everyone hates with sugar on their tongue.

I’ll hate with fire.

It’s the only language I was ever taught.

Life’s a loop.

Grey.

Lifeless.

A blunt knife that still cuts.

And no—

I won’t pretty it up.

It sucks.

That’s it.

It. Fucking. Sucks.