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[wandererinthestacks]

I have found both freedom and safety in my madness;

the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

Kahlil Gibran, The Madman

[sociosecurity]

The Unsold Rose.

She wasn’t the prettiest bloom.

Not soft. Not fragrant.

Not wrapped in ribbons or placed near the light.

She sat in the corner of the market

not petals,

just thorns.

People passed. Looked. Left.

“No charm.”

“Too rough.”

“Too much to handle.”

They wanted roses that posed.

She was a rose that bled.

Not once picked. Not once praised.

But oh she grew through storms others wouldn’t survive.

She stood tall where fragile beauty would’ve crumbled.

She wasn’t made for bouquets.

She was made for truth.

And though no one bought her,

She whispered to herself:

“Let them pass.

I wasn’t meant to be owned.

I was meant to be respected.”

So there she stood

the unsold rose.

Not because she lacked worth

but because the world never learned

how to hold something that fights back

[sociosecurity]

She Arrived...”

In a life without meaning,

She arrived

like a verse in a forgotten song,

bringing purpose where pain once lived.

To a wounded heart,

she gifted a smile

not borrowed, not fake,

but blooming from the cracks of sorrow.

I believed, for a while,

that my heart had finally healed...

But later, I understood

it wasn’t a wound.

It was simply the nature of my heart

to ache where love once lived.

Once I realised

my own heart isn’t with me anymore,

I questioned the labels

Wife?

Prostitute?

What do they even mean?

If the heart accepts her she is a wife.

If only desire seeks her she is a prostitute.

But if both the heart and the desire

embrace her in one breath

She is a companion,

a soul woven into mine,

my forever❤️❤️

[ruhaniya]

[sociosecurity]

"She’s Gone, But This Damn Rose…"

I didn’t buy this flower.

I didn’t grow it.

But here it is,

stuck between pages

like she was in my life.

Uninvited. Unforgotten.

This book ain’t even about love.

But somehow,

every word still sounds like her name.

Every pause,

feels like the night she left.

She used to mark pages with her smile.

Now I mark chapters

with silence.

Look at this red rose

bold, soft, stubborn.

Just like her.

It doesn’t belong here,

but it fits.

Just like she did.

I read now, alone.

Not for escape.

But for company.

Because fiction never left me

like she did.

And maybe this is what healing looks like

a wooden table,

a forgotten book,

and a flower that should’ve dried…

but didn’t.

"She’s gone.

But this damn rose

still smells like yesterday."

[sociosecurity]

They said divorce was the end.

But it wasn’t.

It was the moment I was finally uprooted from a garden that stopped watering me.

And then. unexpectedly

you came.

You didn’t bloom like fireworks.

You bloomed like a rose I never knew was still inside me.

Quiet. Unplugged. Alive.

Not picked, not forced.

Just right.

Love after pain isn’t dramatic.

It’s peaceful.

It’s when someone looks at your scars and doesn’t flinch.

It’s when your soul finally whispers,

This... this is what it was meant to feel like.

[sociosecurity]

"Society didn’t build a structure. It built a jail with kitchen tiles and neckties."

They call it a "structure"

But it’s just a recycled cage,

Polished with "values", painted with "traditions",

And locked using gendered expectations.

They gave women a kitchen and called it duty.

They gave men a wallet and called it honor.

Ask a girl her dream, they ask her, “before or after marriage?”

Ask a boy his feelings, they say, “you’re not built for crying.”

This so-called “structure” was never built to support,

It was designed to label, limit, and silence.

It’s not a framework.

It’s a maze where freedom forgets its way,

And only those who play by its rules are called “respectable.”

[sociosecurity]

We loved in silence, because the world was too loud.”

They called it forbidden.

We called it fate.

Not because we wanted to rebel

but because our hearts found home in each other

before society found a name for it.

She was the fire I wasn’t allowed to touch.

I was the storm she was warned about.

But we burned anyway

slow, sacred, secret.

They’ll never understand how pain can feel like prayer,

or how stolen glances can become lifelines.

We didn’t choose this love.

It chose us.

And that’s the most dangerous kind.