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I write to figure stuff out | ioana.a.writes@gmail.com

It may not change much, but what if it changes everything?

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A man stopped me yesterday in Leicester Square with this question:

Do you want to go to Heaven?

A preacher could be heard over the megaphone in the near distance.

‘Jehova’s Witnesses,’ I thought. ‘Maybe Evangelical.’

The man caught my eye and followed up with:

Do you love Jesus? Jesus loves you.

To which, I retorted:

How do you know? Have you spoken to him?

He said:

No. But I know he loves everyone.

I smiled at the young man and made my way through the freezing ghost-town.

I thought, ‘Bah! …


Using situations instead of hierarchy

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When I think about people close to me, I encounter a thick fog, oblivious to anything on the other side.

I don’t know what it means to be “close” anymore.

If you ask me who I speak to the most, I can think of the top two people.

If you ask me about the ex who is not exactly a friend, but is there for crisis resolution, he’s there too.

I think of the creative tribe that fills me up with support, encouragement, and inspiration in my work.

I think of the mental health buddies to whom I can show up with my vulnerability. …


Poetry Sunday

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To say that I love you would be an understatement.
Underachievement, perhaps.
Because however much it bubbles under my skin,
our reality is moving in a different direction.
A love-less one.
Less love for you and for me.
How can that be?

I know I have tried my best.
I did, see?
Here
Here
and Here.
And There, but we don’t talk about that.

I know I have tried my best.
But can I ask you something?
Have you?
Where were you when you promised to be in one place
but found yourself in another?
Why were you so far from me
while nesting your head in another’s arms?
How could you be so cruel when I was at my weakest,
living inside a body that was fighting so hard to heal?
And one more thing —
How can you still claim your love for me was real? …


Spiritual weekly prompt

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I am ruffled
My feathers are all over the place
I haven’t had my morning bath today
It hasn’t rained in so long
I’m a bit hungry too, but let’s not talk about that.

I’m estranged
The flock left me behind
They say I’m speaking to trees too much
That’s true
But I never knew it was a reason for parting ways
Oh, well.

I’ve not been flying much these days
The raindrops weigh me down
Did I say there wasn’t any rain?
Now it’s pouring like a heavenly water bucket
One moment it’s there,
The other it’s gone.

My song has been more hushed,
See?
I can only hit these lower notes
I must be out of practice
Then again, the trees are quieter too
Everything is quiet. …


A Christmas poem

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A Sunday morning is fit for reflections.
I open my pen
I clutch my notebook.
I begin writing
On my forehead
Labels that have run out of glue
They don’t stick
They hold questions.
Questions don’t linger
Questions fly off.

Like
Why do I feel so sad?

Like
Am I the only one?
Am I truly alone?

Like
If I Do
Or Don’t,
Does that say something about me?
And if so, what?

What does it say about me
If I don’t look forward to the
Holy Days? …


A poem

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Like a toddler that doesn’t know what words to use
when they yell for recognition

Like a storm in a teacup
but like,
an actual storm in an actual teacup
what is the teacup doing outside during monsoon season anyway?

Like the alphabet running over and over
andoverandoverandover again
hoping, maybe this time
it’ll form a real word

Like the clouds parting on a really sunny day
wait — there were clouds?
how…?

Like cheap beer when you’re underaged
awkward
funny tasting
but you either down it or you drown it

Like life passing you by
one minute it’s there
the other it’s…

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