Notes

200 grams of brown sugar,

for something meant to be shared.

Dear Hiring Manager,

words waiting to be brave.

Does the colour blue suit me,

on a good day?

Weird comments my uncle made

does it come in a different shade,

a safer tone,

a version that doesn’t ask questions?

Books on my TBR,

dog names whispered to the ceiling,

plans folded into corners

that never saw daylight.

Why am I so afraid

of my own emotions,

the way they rise without permission

and sit beside everything else?

I note them down anyway,

so someone—or maybe just me—

can see they were here.

Another thousand lives erased

Gaza,

or Sudan,

or whichever name the world forgets first.

Statistics saved

just in case I’m asked

to argue the value

of innocent lives.

Another day asking

if uni taught me how to want things

without burning out,

if I told my granny I loved her enough

before she became memory,

and letting these lines hold it

so the moment doesn’t disappear.

All of it saved under a title I’ll never open again.