Bring back the purple tie, and cut away all the ones to you.

I had a purple tie
From the party he took me to.

Shielded from the judgement and the eyes of my past,
I unleashed my true self.

Where the music was louder.
Where I tasted her lips.
Where I was lost, and found, and free.

And then you called.
My fingers moved by themselves.
The purple tie was gone from my wrist,
Gone from my soul.

Thirty minutes with you,
I turn to stone.
The joy is lost.
I crumple, I fade, I wallow.

If there was ever a doubt,
If there was ever a question…

I am purple.
Bring back the purple tie,
And cut away all the ones to you.

The Purple Tie was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

All of a sudden,
It’s October.

It’s a Tuesday night,
You’re walking home from comedy class.
You get a text.

It’s your man, asking what kind of pizza to get.
It’s new, but he’s your man.
You giggle when you realise he has the same favourite.
A shared love for olives and artichokes.

You’ll see him in minutes,
At the pizza place,
But still text him all the way there.

You’re bantering about Portuguese bakeries,
And strange holiday cakes.

You cut the corner, and you see him.
Sitting outside, tall, handsome, sweet.
You stop walking, start skipping.

He looks up with a smile,
You hold his face while you kiss him on the lips.

You love him.
He loves you back.

You sit down in awe.
You don’t know where the time went,
How you got here.

You’ve made it.
Things fell into place.

Tuesday Night was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You haunt my city. Our city.

I look at the rug
I see us texting, Saturday, past midnight.

I look at the red flower dress
I see the pictures I took for you.

I look at the sparkly shoes
I see a woman dancing around after a first date.

You are everywhere.
The cocktail bar.
The pool table.
The comedy club.
The church fence.

You haunt my city.
Our city.

It’s too cruel.
My tears roll alone.

You get to cast me aside,
you get to move on.

My fire, my love…
It was too much for you.

I promise,
I didn’t want a lot.

I wanted to keep laughing with you,
I wanted to keep kissing you.
I wanted to keep you.

Now I’m stranded at the bar.
I’m stranded on the stairs,
watching my tears wet the cobblestones.

I’d sell my soul
To be on the rug again.

I’d sell my dignity
To be wearing the dress with the red flowers.

I’d sell myself
To be in the sparkly shoes,
heart pounding, dancing, giggling.

But you left me stranded.
There’s nothing left to sell.

Stranded was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I thought the first I love you after him
would come after a long, dreadful journey.

After an endless stream
of maiming love affairs.

Countless nights
staring at the ceiling.

Screaming matches
with my own mind.

Dozens of lost battles
with broken men.

I thought the first I love you after him
would have to be earned, conquered, fought for.

…

But you made it easy. Natural.
You whispered it to me in your bed,

Your arms around my body,
Your skin on my skin,

Your lips so soft on mine,
Your fingertips catching my tears.

Oh, the sighs…

Fine.
I’ll concede.
I’ll unpack here for a moment.
I’ll make myself at home in your arms.

I’ll forget about the fear
and the doubts for one afternoon.

I’ll get lost in your tenderness,
in our passion,
in my love.

I love you too.
Please, don’t break me.

I Love You Too was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m just trying to enjoy my life.
The first sip of my mango matcha latte.
And here it is again, the stabbing pain.

I miss you.
I miss you, I miss you, I fucking miss you.
I want to tell you all about my day.
I want to make you smile.

It’s not me.
It’s because you’re broken into pieces.

The fixer in me is on fire.
All I want is to reach inside your mind.
Find all those shadows and dark thoughts.
Grab all that pain, yank it out of you.

But the cost is too high.
It would cost me myself.
It would show you I’m someone who stays through everything.

Through every ruthless comment.
Every heartless comparison.
Every cheap judgment.
Through that freezing indifference.
That’s not me anymore.

…

But baby,
You can be happy.
You can choose happiness.

I see your pain.
I feel your pain.

It’s not the world, baby.
It’s not the weight of the decisions.
It’s not the aftermath of the flames.

It’s you.

You conjure all the barriers.
You create all the doubts.

The darkness is blinding you.
Nothing stands between you and everything you say you want the most.

Why can’t you believe it?
Why can’t you believe you deserve to be loved?

You feel their rejection so much.
You want to belong.

They will never accept you.
They are not the answer.
You are the answer.

This is not me anymore.
But I could be the answer.

If you choose me.
Why don’t you choose me?

This poem was meant to be spoken. Watch me read it here.

It’s Not Me, It’s You was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You wrote about me.
Twisted me into the Girl Boss.
You wore me like a badge,
A sales pitch, a marketing tactic.

Did you not see?
I know you did.
So did you forget?
I am a human.

I am not all dark eyes,
Wild curly hair,
Gorgeous force of nature.

Yes, I am a woman who knows what she wants.
But I am also just a woman.

I did not show up to play a game.
I did not show up to be conquered,
Or tamed, or slain like a fucking wild lion.

I showed up hurt.
I showed up afraid.
I showed up hopeful.

I bared myself to you.

The Christmas shows, the drawings, the songs.
You saw how much it all meant to me,
And you put it all aside,
For a catchier title for your piece.

I felt seen by you,
Safe with you.
And you shrank me to a character.

You could have lived up to all you preach.
You could have stayed, truly melted me to my core.
You ran away instead,
Turned me into a trophy to hang.

It was real.
We pinned the ghosts from our pasts.
They don’t get to steal our joy anymore.
We made fun of wine people,
We got lost in each other,
Until you couldn’t be brave anymore.

I got a glimpse of what’s under the armour,
I fucking loved what I saw.

I should be angry,
I should be furious.
But I don’t do should’s anymore.

My heart is breaking for you.

You liked me.
I know how afraid you were.
I was too,
I could have fallen for you.

This poem was meant to be spoken. Watch me read it here.

I’m scared to write about him.

I’m scared to write about how his lips wake me up.
How my thoughts turn to tangled yarn when he touches my skin.
How my chest purrs when he tells me to take my jacket off.
How his confidence grounds my body.

He’s projecting, showing me a persona.
And it works.

I’m scared to write about how I’m dying to get under the surface.
How much I want to know the real him.
How much his mind pulls me in.
How afraid I am to drown.

His rejection will sink me.
How many more times will I go under?

I can’t help it.
I can’t help opening my heart to men like him.
They bring me endless joy and bottomless pain.

My head will get heavy, my body will get heavy.
I won’t get out of bed.
I will reread all the texts.
I will revisit every single thing I said… every single sign.

But I can take all the blows.
I must take all the blows.

I don’t know how to love any other way.
I must love these layered, broken, patched up men.
Those are the ones who will understand me. Hold me.

At some point, they’ll finally bring me down.
And I’ll be broken beyond repair.

So I focus on the lips.
On the yarned up thoughts.
On the purring.
On the grounding.

On the fingers brushing through my thigh.
On the hands in my hair, pulling me in.
Holding my mind in one piece.

I focus on his signs, the ones I want to see.
How he shifts in his chair when I look into his eyes.
How his attention vanishes into my body when I speak.
How he tries hard to shift it back to my words.

He projects so much when he’s around me.
It must mean he likes me.
It must mean I tangle his thoughts the way he tangles mine.
It must mean he won’t let me drown.

Mustn’t it?

This poem was meant to be spoken. Watch me read it here.

They say it takes a village.
I always longed for a village.

My heart got shattered last night.
Shattered bad. Into 300 little pieces.

And I knew it, I was right.
It hurt so much more than the last time.
It hurt so much I physically couldn’t take it.

I broke down, on the way home.
The tears rolling down my cheeks
Collapsing on the white cobble stones
Eleven thirty in the evening

I could not move, could not breathe.

And then…
The village came.

It came in a call,
“I can’t believe he did it”
My questions had an answer.

It came in a text,
“I’m so sorry, baby”
My pain was understood.

It came in a hug,
“Us men are so stupid!”
My sobs had where to land.

How lucky am I?
How lucky am I to walk home to her warm words?
How lucky am I to come home into his friendly arms?
How lucky am I to wake up to five worried texts?

For so long
I cried in silence.

For so long
I had no place to air my pain.

Lying on the ground,
My tears pooling,
Month after month,
Year after year.

Where did the village come from?

I’m baffled.
I’m humbled
amazing souls care about me.

I know I’m broken,
But for the first time ever
I’m on the way to being whole.
I have a village.

This poem was meant to be spoken. Watch me read it here.

I’m sitting in the silence.
So many people around me in this busy cafe,
None of them know how much your silence is weighing on me.

I’m sitting in a room
With the walls closing in,
And also so far away at the same time.

I know I did the wrong thing.
I feel it in my bones.

And I know I did the right thing.
It’s the only possible way.

I used to be afraid, for too long.
I always took the safest option.

Yesterday, I chose to be brave
Everything worth it in life is risky, so I risked it.
I wrote my pain down,
I bared my soul on that stupid WhatsApp.

I ran though the mirror.
The shatters are sharp.
They cut deep.

I always tell myself
It won’t hurt as much every time.
It always hurts more than the last.

I think of your lips hovering so close to mine.
I feel I’m being stabbed
Right in the middle of my chest.

And it doesn’t come from fear,
Doesn’t come from pain.
It comes from longing,
From desire.

Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to feel stabbing desire?

I feel the pull
To you, to people like you.

So curious,
So open,
So layered,
So complex.

And everyone thinks I’m crazy,
And that I should move on.
My friends roll their eyes,
Tell me to pick available men.

But running away would be the easy thing to do.
Not texting back would be letting the fear win.

I choose to be brave.
I choose to go after you.
I choose the progress, even if it hurts.

Getting hurt is better than not being alive.
You make me feel alive.

And so I sit in the silence.
I check the phone every 10 minutes.
I pray to the trees and the stars and the banana karma.
That you choose to be as brave as me.

This poem was meant to be spoken. Watch me read it here.