#wanderingsoul95

[whisperedthoughts95]

I’m the villain ?!

Okay …

Then so fucking be it

[whisperedthoughts95]

Dear Me,

Enough.

Sincerely,

Me.

[whisperedthoughts95]

A soul that craves stability,

and a spirit that wants expansion …

[whisperedthoughts95]

I think what hurts

isn’t that he’s with her.

It’s that my mind keeps inventing scenes

I was never invited into.

Not because I wanted them desperately,

but because I wanted them carefully.

I wanted slowness.

Tenderness.

A beginning that didn’t feel like a transaction.

And somehow that became

the thing I lost.

So now my brain punishes me with comparisons

what she gets, what I never touched,

what stayed imaginary long enough

to feel sacred.

But the truth is uglier and simpler:

Nothing was stolen from me.

Nothing was owed.

A door just didn’t open.

And I keep standing in front of it,

imagining rooms that were never mine

[whisperedthoughts95]

Again. I saw this post on Instagram, poets pouring their feelings into comment sections, leaving their hearts under pictures of couples watching sunsets.

I wanted to write. I craved writing. But then I got scared.

Scared of you reading it. Scared that this feeling, this quiet battle I’m carrying, would become public, not to everyone, but to you.

That you would recognize yourself in it.

I can’t risk that. So here I am, sharing these words under anonymity.

I dream of us sometimes, sitting again, watching the sun disappear, not at the cliff, but under a tree, hiding from the world and our fears.

It’s not love that makes the moment heavy, it’s the future that has already said no.

Then everything goes dark.

Some loves are not meant to start, only to be dreamed, soft and apart.

[whisperedthoughts95]

The Fire Nobody Warned Me About

Why does nobody talk about this?

 This shift.  This crack in the ground.  This silent explosion inside a woman  when she crosses into a new decade.

No ceremony. No warning. Just… fire. Nobody said, “Hey, your body is going to start screaming.” Nobody said, “Hey, your emotions will become a full-time job.” They just smiled and said, “welcome to your thirties.” like it’s a spa day. Is it universal, or is it just me losing my mind quietly?

Suddenly my body is louder than my thoughts. Suddenly my skin has opinions. Suddenly everything is too much and not enough at the same time.

I am restless. I am irritated. I am starving for something I can’t name. And being single? It doesn’t sit in my heart anymore. It sits in my nerves. In my muscles. In my breath.

It is a physical loneliness. A hunger with a pulse. A quiet ache that lives under the skin.

Every day is a battlefield. Mood up. Mood down. Strong. Weak. Soft. Furious. All in the same hour.

I train. I run. I push until my lungs burn. Until my legs shake. Until my body begs me to stop. And still… it’s not quiet. Still… it wants. Still… it asks.

Water on my skin feels louder now. Fabric feels louder. Air feels louder. Everything touches deeper than it used to. Everything lingers. Everything leaves an echo.

I stand in front of the mirror and think: Who the hell are you? When did you become this woman? This mix of power and need, discipline and chaos, control and craving.

I judge her. I doubt her. I am disappointed in her. And yet… I want her. I want her to be seen. Loved. Held. Touched. Desired. Chosen.

I want someone to look at her and not hesitate. To touch her like they mean it. To want her like it’s natural.

How can I be so critical of myself and still want so much for myself?

Is my body asking for love? Is it asking for connection? Is it asking for intimacy? Is it asking to be touched, to be known, to be claimed? Or is it just screaming because time is loud and biology has no manners?

I get dressed like nothing is wrong. I fix my hair. I moisturize. I smile. I pretend.

But inside, something is pacing. Something is leaning forward. Something is waiting.

There is a tension in me. A pull. A gravity.

Even my own movements betray me. I slow down without meaning to. I linger. I take my time. I feel everything. The wind passes and I feel it. The silence breathes and I hear it. My own body exists and I cannot ignore it.

It is beautiful. It is violent. It is exhausting. It is confusing.

And I am standing in the middle of it, trying to be composed, trying to be mature, trying to be calm, while everything inside me is awake.

Wide awake.

What do you do with a body that wants more and a life that hasn’t given it yet? When your soul is patient but your skin is not. When every day feels unfinished and every night feels too long.

Do you wait? Do you fight? Or do you just burn quietly until something finally gives?

[whisperedthoughts95]

How strange, how absurd, how funny ... me, hiding my naked letters beneath poetry posts scattered across platforms, masked by unknown profiles, sealed with encrypted pseudonyms

and still, look at me scrolling for his echoes, hunting his replies, his lines, asking if they reached him, if his eyes ever touched them

what is he thinking? what will he say?

will he recognize himself inside these syllables? will he feel himself in these vowels, recognize the outline of his name? did any syllable bruise him the way his absence bruises me? will he recognize me the pulse behind the words, behind the feelings? will he feel me the hand that shakes behind each sentence, the heart spelling him again and again like prayer?

how funny, funny like a laugh that tastes of salt, how funny, how helplessly, foolishly funny...

[whisperedthoughts95]

The day i stopped looking in mirrors

A small habit, a whole life unraveling…

I once spent a whole day with him. He sat facing me, scanning my face like he was reading a book, and then he smiled. “You’re really different,” he said, smirking like he’d uncovered a secret.

“What? How?” I asked.

“Like… really different. Not like the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“We literally spent the entire day together, and you didn’t check your reflection once. Not in a mirror, not in your phone screen, not in a shop window, nothing.”

“Really? I didn’t even notice.”

“Is it because you’re with me, or is that a you-thing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it in myself. But I can give you credit for today , you kept me busy with your drama and sarcasm,” I said, trying to flirt, trying to turn it into something playful.  I took it as a compliment , or at least that’s what I thought, what I felt in that moment.

That was the first time anyone ever pointed it out. And it stuck.

Because I used to check. All the time.  Every mirror, every dark car window, every reflection in passing glass.  I used to feel good, or at least try to. Adjusting hair, fixing a collar, smoothing lipstick, anything to keep the illusion alive.

“It’s because I’m more confident now,” I told myself.  Lie.

I hid the truth behind that lie.  “I don’t need to check. I’m beautiful as I am. I love myself no matter how I look.”  Another lie. And I knew it.

That old version of me ,  the girl who overflowed with life and small joys , she adored her reflection. She loved to catch herself in mirrors, to say silently, this is me, I’m proud of this. She couldn’t stop looking, because she liked who she saw.

Not anymore.  Now I avoid mirrors because they show me everything I don’t want to see:  the sadness stamped into my face,  the pale skin,  the hooded eyes with dark bruises underneath,  the thin body, the dry skin creased before its time.

Those eyes.  Those eyes that used to shine now just accuse me, whispering failure!

I don’t love myself. Not my appearance, not my situation, not my life.  I’ve tried ,  new clothes, makeup, filters, perfect lighting ,  nothing worked.  I don’t like the girl in the pictures either.

So, slowly, I found relief in neglect.  I stopped checking.  Stopped taking photos.  Stopped trying to fix what felt unfixable.

“Confidence?” No.  It was about self-love since day one.  And now?  Another lie to hide behind:  “I’m too old for this detail. Too busy for makeup. Just comfy clothes, nothing more.”

How pitiful.  One tiny habit can reveal an entire life unraveling.

What looks like self-love can also be hiding self-loss…

That’s sad.  And I’m sad.