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I touch my fingers to your lips and feel the warmth of your silenced words scurry on their tips; with a heavy breath you've been holding back, you keep your eyes steady,
right where you want them to, my lips
that you expect them to speak, but are reticent of their own dilemma,
still, if I were to give in, if only was I so brave,
and bring my lips closer to the gate where your thoughts are sealed, while I let my fingertips count inches of your skin wherever they could escape, so I could have you in your vulnerable state and steal those sensations you conceal,
when you won't even realise them evading from your heart to mine.
It’s as if befriending people has become a competition,
Just another trophy that gets thrown in the drawer later on,
Forever forgotten.
And you’ll only remember it once you clean your room thoroughly—
You will take the trophy out, polish it, and guilt will hit you for letting it collect dust.
You’ll gaze at it and nostalgia waves will surround you, drowning your mind with flashbacks of the good old times.
And then,
then you put it back in the drawer.
Trigger warning: abuse
Your first lover bruised your wrist because he wouldn't let go. He was like the summer sky- always bright until he wasn't. His thunder was always so sudden you rarely felt the pain.
Your second lover hugged you with pincer grasps. With a distant affection of disgust, never meeting your eyes or the bruises of your past.
Your mother loved you in silence, with whispers and hushes. She lent you her makeup and words on how to survive with hickeys. How to mimic the walls when his screams of terror arrive.
Abuse was never in the vocabulary of the hands that gripped you. They called it love since the very first rib they broke.
The merry blossom looked up the sky
and stretched its tendrils towards the sunrise;
as if a child beckoning his mother to cradle him,
while the blue garden smiled down at this sweet blossom
that waits for the nourishment it brims with
each passing night.
It's the prime of youth to chase those golden bulbs and the evening's wind, yet my path diverges toward so and so.
Either watch the spring wither with time as I take roundabouts to reach those lights, or have them so close to me yet be denied the step to move any further.
Ironic, isn't it?
How people misinterpret my silence and quiet,
filling it with their own stories and labelling their fiction as my truth.
Addicted to This World
I am addicted to life,
To money's unyielding allure,
Obsession with love—my relentless OCD.
The essence of moon and sun,
I cannot do without,
Their rhythm, my eternal compass.
Born into this world,
I crave to live it to the fullest.
I cherish my body,
Fleeing from every abrasion,
For every scar whispers a tale of survival.
I need colors to paint my dreams,
I need music to soothe my soul,
I need words,
Poetically laden with meaning,
To fill the silence with purpose.
I long to hear the echoes of laughter,
Rippling through the air like an anthem of joy.
I yearn to touch the wind,
To feel the rush of freedom,
Unbound by chains of doubt.
I am addicted to the dance of seasons,
To the rain that kisses the earth,
To the fireflies that light the darkness,
To the stars that hold secrets of infinity.
I am addicted to this world,
Its chaos, its beauty, its pain, its glory
Every piece of it keeps me alive.
©® Victoria Damilola
How would you like your tea, gentleman?
You seem to be too awake to be requiring caffeine, should I just blend in more sweetness and conceal a floral spice? So every sip would blossom through your tongue and wake your skin with its fragrant delight.
#he
#happiness
Moonlit Reverie
The moon hangs high,
a quiet sentinel in the velvet sky,
its beauty not in what it says,
but in what it reveals.
Silver light drapes across her,
softening edges,
casting shadows that hold no fear.
She is the moon’s chosen canvas.
The craters whisper her name,
ancient and enduring,
as if they’ve known her long before I did,
long before time carved its marks on us all.
Her eyes reflect the moon’s glow,
not as a mirror,
but as if they share the same fire,
the same quiet brilliance.
Even as the moon stands alone in the vast expanse,
its beauty is amplified by her presence.
She gives it meaning,
as if the sky itself sighs in awe
of the harmony they create.
I wonder,
is the moon watching her too?
Does it envy my fortune
to hold her hand
under its perfect light?
Am I in disbelief to believe you somehow let me in your world,
That you manifested a side you hide from your blood,
Am I deranged to think you somehow let me perfect your deformed image of love,
That you attached the rip of your soul from what I gave.
Often love mocks us with the very thing we never had faith in,
just to have us believe in the vestiges of their sweetness we never could have guessed would become our gift.
#voids
#grief
If you're made of iron,
beware the ones who feel like fresh air—
for iron rusts in oxidation.
You drink from the palms of my hands, obsessed with the curve of my fingers that reach for you in the heat of the moment and it saddens me beyond expression. The undeniable lengths you go to see a smile, how I wished for them back then. Your haunting stare that steals all the breathes around you but my own, reciting a passage from a book. We've been here before in this hazy light, dancing on the edge of grandeur and tragedy. I have no more air in my lungs left to fuel your flames. Instead I would allow you to keep the memories somewhere beautiful and young in your heart. All the ribbons in the world and I untie yours with my teeth. All the poems on earth and I touched yours. Keep that with you until death comes to visit. I won't resent you for holding onto those good old times. It's one thing to be made into tough and it is another to be born as such.
You sneak a look at my reflection in the broken winter mirror as I unwrap your soul like silk, exquisite cries echo at every reveal. In the grand scheme of things, what scares you the most was not being able to see me pick you apart and put you back together. Before I close my eyes, I imagine the confusion that swirled in your orbs, the stench of hope on your crescent lips, but then I also imagine lingering sadness on your face that puts me at ease. I loathe how I love to see you wreathe in pain but know it was not in vain. It was a milestone for you to be devoid and to be filled again with a newer light.
In love I often became a criminal, for in greed of your warmth I held you too close to myself that my thorns invaded your skin.
#grief
#poetry
My instincts have been at rest, frozen in time, taunting and teasing me with adrenaline enough for my heart to skip but never enough to wail the sounds of grief to escape this prison I have made brick by brick for myself. The distance between me and everyone that sees me from outside the glass room must widen. The prettier the garment, the lovelier my words and the softer my face it is easier to decieve even my own eyes.
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The Curse of Her Name
To speak of her was treason,
to know her was sin.
And yet they clung to her legend,
sculpted her into the face of every disaster.
When the fires raged,
they claimed her eyes had lit them.
When their ships sank,
they swore her breath was the wind.
But she
a mere mortal
with nothing but her own heart to give
watched as they painted her
a villain,
their fears and failures
masquerading as her crimes.
My Grandmother
Her hair is moon-like white,
her soft wrinkles and hollowed cheeks
reminds me of its craters.
Day-by-day, her eyes
are losing its sight
but the love in them is still intact.
Her soles— cracked
like a barren land on this earth
that hasn't been ploughed with love
since ages.
We converse often
about nothing but life
that seeps out
through every word she speaks.
At times, her voice ceases abruptly,
I wonder if—
she's reminiscing about her old days
behind the screen of her closed lids
or just too tired to continue.
Before the night engulfs us
in her tenderness,
On her forehead, I—
gently kiss ‘life into her’;
sealing the promise
of continuing it tomorrow.
#love
#aging
November! I Will Never Take It for Granted
Reflection is not for the weak;
Even the strong cannot grasp every pieces of memory.
Some slip away, lost to time,
But what matters most is this:
Whether joy or sorrow greets you,
The act of reflection holds its own weight.
November,
You are the quiet pillar I lean on,
Bearing my burdens with unwavering grace.
I pour my weight into you,
And no matter how heavy or chaotic,
You hold it all, unbroken
A sanctuary for the storms I bring.
In this sacred month,
I retrace the steps I once lost.
I rewrite the stars,
Charting a new course through the chaos.
The slate is clean, and my heart feels lighter.
A million reasons bind me to gratitude,
For this season has given me something irreplaceable.
My feelings, my self
I’ve wrestled them back from the void.
And though reflection stirs the echoes of pain,
It also reminds me of joy's resilience.
Here I stand, bathed in the soft glow of hope,
Ready to rise, to begin again.
November,
You are more than a chapter in time.
You are my anchor, my mirror,
My silent reminder of life’s tenacious beauty.
For that, I will never take you for granted.
©® Victoria Damilola
And on hard days, honey,
all I want you to do is to wake my softness,
stitch its seams back in place
when my fingers tear on its strings,
show me ways I can be loved
on days I'm not worthy of it.
#hope
#happiness
When I stared in the bathroom mirror this morning,
I searched in my reflection for the child that I used to be,
And all I found were traces left behind—
Fading footsteps at the back of my mind made by the glittery pink shoes 7 year old me wore as she danced through time,
And grief found an escape out of my eyes and ran down my cheeks, taking me for a trip down memory lane, a trip long overdue, and it makes me wonder, did grief find an escape or did I unlock the door for you?
Echoes of my laughter linger in the silence, as I remembered shouting “higher” as my sister pushed me on the swing,
But now I stand before the mirror,
Lost in heartbreaking silence.
Still, I find traces of my laughter,
Though they shyly hide in the back of my throat,
Existent, yet muted, forever scarred.
They yearn for a push or perhaps a pep talk,
Or perhaps yearn to be back at that swing again.
What use is a poet's soul,
when the verses turn to dust?
A heart heavy with untold tales,
but a voice it cannot trust.
They said,
"Flowers don’t bloom in stones,"
but they don’t know
how I held myself together
when the world fell apart.
Maybe they hate me,
maybe they don’t care.
Only I know the weight
of the words thrown at me,
the curses whispered,
the battles I fought alone.
I smile in front of everyone,
because that’s what they want to see.
And they think,
"There’s no pain behind that smile."
But inside,
I’ve learned to bloom
even in places
where nothing should grow.
And yet,
when the petals finally fall,
no one sees the emptiness,
no one notices
that the flowers stopped blooming
a long time ago.
~Thoughtless
Am I enough?
If I am not loud enough to be heard,
not broken enough to be saved,
not whole enough to be loved.
If I tatter my heart like a battle wound
and call it resilience,
if I show up every day
and ask myself
why the pieces of me
never seem to fit together.
Am I enough?
If I am made of contradictions,
a fire wrapped in cold skin,
a storm disguised as calm,
if I love with a force
that leaves me bereft
but never stops.
There are days I wonder
if the world will ever see
that just surviving is its own
kind of beauty,
that the fissures in my soul
are the parts where I learned to thrive and rise.
Maybe I will never be perfect,
maybe I will never be enough for them,
but maybe, just maybe,
I am exactly what I need,
exactly what this world needs,
in my placid, imperfect way,
and that is enough.
I wish
someone could hold me close,
wrap their arms around my doubts, and say;
“Yes, you are enough”.
I know—
life can feel so heavy sometimes.
Like no matter how hard you try,
the pieces just don’t fit,
and it feels easier to stop trying.
But I hope—
you stay.
I hope the weight you carry
gets lighter with time,
and the pain doesn’t feel so sharp tomorrow.
I hope you find moments
that make you smile again,
even if they’re small.
It’s hard—
to believe in better days
when everything feels broken.
But sometimes,
you just have to trust
that even the worst storms
eventually pass.
Keep going.
I know it’s not easy.
I know it hurts in ways
you can’t explain.
But you’re still here,
and that’s worth something.
Don’t give up now.
You’ve survived so much already.
There’s still love waiting for you,
still joy you haven’t felt,
still moments that will remind you
why you held on.
Everything will be okay,
even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
Sometimes,
you just have to take it
one day at a time.
~Thoughtless
Note to self;
I am here for you,
Even when you judge yourself,
When doubts drown your courage,
Or silence deafens your hope.
I am the voice that whispers,
“You are more than enough,”
The light that remains steady,
Even when the world grows dim.
I’ll cradle your fears gently,
Hold your scars like stories,
And remind you that healing
Is a journey, not a race.
©® Victoria Damilola
I slept with dinosaurs last night.
They were all around me.
I was in such a fright.
But, soon found out they could not see me.
The were above me,
Below me,
Next to me,
All around me.
In the sheets,
I’m afraid more than knee deep.
On my skin they did creep.
Out of my mouth did not come one peep.
They roamed high.
They roamed low.
I was quiet and did not sigh.
Their eyes were all aglow.
Then mom turned on the light.
I was still alive, everything was alright.
It is true that yesterday, I lost faith in you.
It is also true that I no longer saw the strong man who braved challenges and overcame the insurmountable.
But today, I saw the hungry child smile again.
I saw that madman in the middle of the road, smiling, defying the world with a disarming recklessness.
So I decided to give up everything and let things happen naturally.
I’m not good with people
that’s what I tell myself,
over and over,
until it feels like the only truth I know.
Sometimes, someone walks into my life,
kind and warm,
ready to understand me.
They learn my favorite things,
listen to my fears,
and stand beside me on my hardest days.
They laugh with me,
share my quiet moments,
and for a little while,
it feels like I’ve found a piece of forever.
But then I start to push.
I push too hard,
showing them all the cracks in me,
the wounds that never close.
I share the stories that hurt the most,
the anger I can’t control,
the sadness I can’t escape.
I wait to see if they’ll stay,
but deep down,
I know they won’t.
One day, they look at me differently
tired,
like they’ve carried too much.
And then they leave,
just like I thought they would.
But it still hurts,
because I hoped,
even for a moment,
that this time would be different.
I tell myself I was right,
that I’m too broken,
too hard to love.
And now, I sit alone,
with only my shadows for company,
whispering again and again
"I’m not good with people."
~Thoughtless
I forget my own feelings sometimes, so I write to rediscover what I feel, because it's difficult to keep track of all the hurdles going on. It's hard to let go of everything without putting it down in writing.
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We listen; we don’t judge
We can’t bribe the door on the way to the sky.
You are not me; I am not you,
But we all take steps,
Carrying stories in our eyes.
So I will listen, I won’t judge.
Every whisper,
Every shaky breath,
Each fear you try to hide,
I see the weight you hold,
The fall that brought us all to our knees.
But who am I to point a finger?
We saw, we don’t judge.
Yesterday is gone,
A time we can’t get back.
Today is still a puzzle,
Changing with every moment.
We walk, we trip, we rise again,
Holding on to what makes us human.
So share your truth,
And I will listen.
Your hopes, your doubts, your pain,
They matter, and I will hear it all.
In this short life,
We saw, we listened,
And we chose not to judge.
©® Victoria Damilola