Morning without you

 Morning finds me before I am ready,

before my heart remembers how to beat alone.

I wake reaching for a voice

that no longer answers my name.

The bed is quiet.

Too quiet.

Silence presses where love once lived.

For months, loving you vasq was my language,

my routine, my breath between hours.

Now the day opens like a question

I don’t yet know how to answer.

I miss your face

the way desire felt certain,

the warmth that convinced my body

I was chosen.

Grief comes in ordinary moments—

light through the window,

the first thought of the day,

the habit of you.

I am not broken.

I am withdrawing from a life

I built around your presence.

So if I cry in the morning,

let it be known:

this is the sound of love learning

how to stand on its own.

And though today feels impossible,

I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still becoming someone

who survives the absence

and keeps going.

A HEART THAT LEARNED TO SURVIVE

 I stayed where love had teeth,

where my name was shouted,

where silence was safer than asking,

and leaving felt heavier than staying.

I left and returned,

again and again,

because hope is stubborn

when it grows in wounded places.

I lived with a man

who rationed kindness,

who counted my child’s hunger,

who made food feel like guilt

and love feel like debt.

My body learned fear before desire.

Touch arrived without tenderness.

Breath left before pleasure began.

Even my tears learned to be quiet.

I became someone else to survive—

angry, fragmented,

borrowing warmth from strangers

just to remember I was human.

Then I chose solitude.

I chose work.

I chose to build, to finish, to achieve.

I learned how to be a machine

because machines do not break.

And then I met you.

You were softness.

You were presence.

You were the first place

my heart rested without flinching.

I loved you deeply—

not loudly, not recklessly,

but with the kind of love

that finally believes it is safe.

Then your voice grew distant.

Your words thinned.

I began counting pauses,

reading silence like prophecy.

I blamed myself.

My past taught me to do that.

To believe love leaves

because I am too much,

too wounded, too afraid.

I don’t want many bodies.

I want one heart.

I only bloom in love.

Without it, I dry quietly,

and even pleasure forgets me.

So here I am—

loving hard,

hurting honestly,

terrified of losing what I finally found.

If I reach for you too often,

it is not control.

It is memory.

It is a woman who learned

that love can vanish without warning.

I am not broken—

I am surviving in a body

that remembers everything.

If I ask you to stay,

it is not weakness.

It is hope,

still brave enough

to try again Vasq.

HEALING ISN'T SIMPLE

 .

People talk about moving on from heartbreak like it’s a simple thing

“Just cry and move on,” they say—like pain works on a timer.

But nobody prepares you for those nights when your chest feels heavy, your mind won’t slow down, and your heart refuses to release what it once held so tightly.

No one talks about the 2 a.m. hours—

when the whole world is quiet but your thoughts are unbearably loud.

When sleep runs away from you because your mind is replaying every moment, every conversation, every “what if,” every future you had already started building in your head.

Nobody warns you that heartbreak can feel physical.

The tight chest, the heaviness in your body, the tears that appear out of nowhere.

You’re not being dramatic—you’re grieving a bond your heart had fully invested in.

Healing feels lonely, too.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.

Because no one lived your love story the way you did—no one carried your hope, your effort, your emotional depth.

And healing is never a straight line.

One day you’re sure you’ve outgrown the situation, and the next day you miss them so suddenly and so deeply that you question everything.

That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

No one tells you how long it takes to unlearn the habits.

The morning check-ins.

The comfort of their voice.

The feeling of having someone to share your day with.

Heartbreak isn’t just losing a person—it’s losing a rhythm.

And maybe the toughest part is learning to trust yourself again.

Because heartbreak makes you doubt your judgment, your worth, your ability to choose people.

But loving deeply doesn’t mean you loved wrong—it means you loved courageously. And courage always leaves a mark.

So no, moving on isn’t “cry and get over it.”

It’s sitting with the pain, understanding yourself, forgiving yourself, rebuilding piece by piece, and choosing peace one day at a time.

It’s slow. It’s messy.

But eventually, your heart stops breaking—and starts breathing again.

I MISS HIM

There was a warmth in him

that didn’t match his quiet smile,

a kind of fire he carried

beneath all that gentleness.

With him, closeness felt different —

like he understood my language

without ever needing the words.

A touch became a conversation,

a moment became a memory

I still feel in my skin.

He knew how to hold space for me,

how to meet me where I was,

how to awaken parts of me

I didn’t know were waiting.

Sometimes I miss the way

he made me feel seen,

the quiet magic,

the unspoken heat,

the way his presence

could turn a heartbeat

into something louder.

I miss the man he was to the world —

and the fire he was to me.

MAYBE ONE DAY YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

 

Maybe one day you’ll understand this:

I never wanted a battlefield.

I never wanted loud arguments or quiet distance.

All I ever wanted was to feel chosen…

to feel safe…

to feel like love didn’t have to be earned like a prize.

It was never me against you.

It was me trying to hold together something I valued.

Me trying to protect the softness between us.

Me trying to show up in the ways I once wished

someone had shown up for me.

You called it “too much.”

Too emotional.

Too intense.

But what I gave wasn’t pressure—

it was care.

The kind of love that stays when things get tough,

not the kind that disappears when it becomes inconvenient.

I never wanted you to doubt yourself.

Ironically, you made me doubt myself every day.

And maybe one day, you’ll look back and see it:

I wasn’t trying to control anything.

I wasn’t demanding perfection.

I was just trying to love you

in the only honest way I knew—

even when you kept pushing me further away Vasq.

YOU LEFT ME PARKED IN MY THOUGHTS

I parked here to breathe,

because the weight in my chest grew loud.

The world kept moving,

but my h

eart needed a quiet corner.

Sadness sat beside me,

not to break me,

but to remind me I’m human.

Maybe healing is a journey,

maybe it starts with a road trip,

a suitcase,

and a place where the sky feels lighter.

So I’ll take a small vacation—

not to escape life,

but to find myself again

somewhere my spirit can sigh in peace.

When Death Knocked in My Sleep: A Nightmare That Taught Me About Life

Last night, I had a nightmare so vivid it clung to my soul even after I woke up. In that dream, I was at the hospital — not as a visitor, but as a patient. I had been diagnosed with a deadly illness. The doctor’s words were clear: I was going to die. They asked if I wanted to be injected with a medication that would prolong my life for a short while — just two more years. I declined. I was still healthy at that moment, and even though I was shaken by the news, I didn’t overthink my decision. I just said no.

Then the dream shifted.

I was weak. I had lost all my hair. My body was frail, a shadow of the woman I once was. I was dying. I turned to my sister, Rehema, and told her that I regretted refusing the injection. I wished I had chosen to live those extra two years, even if they were filled with pain. But even as I said the words, I wasn’t sure what I truly wanted — to live or to die. I was caught in between. A part of me still wanted to hold on to life.

Rehema looked at me and said, “Hata wangekusumbua.” I couldn’t tell whether she meant it sincerely, or if she was trying to comfort me, knowing the decision was behind us now and there was no turning back.

And then I prayed.

In my dying state, I began to plead with God for a miracle. And something happened — I felt a spark of strength returning. A flicker of hope. My parents had already given up. They had accepted I was going to die. I didn’t tell them that I felt stronger. I didn’t want to give them false hope. I wasn’t even sure if I was truly getting better, or if it was just my imagination — one final delusion of hope before the end.

When I woke up, I was in tears.

I prayed for health — not just for myself, but for everyone struggling in silence, everyone fighting invisible battles inside breaking bodies. I realized something profound: when death comes, we lose control. No human can stop it. No one can protect the people they love from the pain of losing them. No one can stop the ache of grief.

That dream taught me something I’ll never forget — life is fragile, and those who live with terminal illness endure a depth of pain and uncertainty that most of us will never truly understand. I felt it. And I honour it.

We often live like we’re in control. But we’re not. Life is a mystery, and sometimes, even in dreams, it reminds us of what really matters.