The Raw me - As mystery unfolds

As a child, I lived in the quiet spaces between being seen and being forgotten. Love, in my home, felt like something distant— a language, I was never taught to speak. My father dreamed of a son, not a daughter shaped like me, and my mother— tired, worn, and heavy with life— carried storms, she could not put down. She once dreamed, of a home filled with laughter, but what she held instead, was a life of sharp edges and unspoken wounds. I was born into the shadow of that grief, into arms that never quite opened. Each day, I learned the weight of being unwanted— in the silences, in the curses whispered like truths I was meant to believe. I wondered, why didn’t they play with me? Why didn’t they hold me like I had seen others held? Why did love skip past me as if I were invisible? They expected strength before I learned softness, Confidence, before I knew comfort. So I grew up believing I was not enough— not enough to be chosen, not enough to be loved. And so, I built another world. In da...

  This house still hums with the rhythm of my hands— faint, but unforgotten, like a song that lingers after the singer has gone. In its quiet corners sleep the mornings I borrowed from the sun, waking before light could claim the sky, kneading warmth into soft dough, stirring love into silent breakfasts while the world dreamed on. I stitched time into tiny uniforms, threading patience through every seam, packed small boxes with more than food— with courage, with comfort, with pieces of myself you never saw. My dreams— I folded them gently, creased them small, and tucked them away between laundry lines and lullabies that carried your fears into sleep. Your father’s evenings, heavy with unspoken weight, found rest upon my quiet strength. Your storms— loud, restless, wild— broke against my arms and dissolved into safety. I was the bridge no one noticed crossing, the pause between anger, the silence that kept the house from breaking. I was the lamp that refused to dim when darkness kno...

I was born like a question no one wished to answer. A stubborn spark, they said—  too loud, too certain, too unwilling to bend. When I walked alone through corridors of doubt, their silence followed me like a shadow. No hands held mine. No doors opened. No voices said  you will make it. They watched instead— waiting for my fall to become their proof. So I built my road, with splinters of refusal. I stitched courage from sleepless nights, from insults thrown like stones at my unfinished dreams. Every step forward, was rebellion. Every breath, a quiet argument against the world that had already decided my ending. And now— Now they gather, like birds around sunlight. They speak my name with admiration, decorate my victories with borrowed pride. They say, they always believed in me. But I remember the long winters of walking alone. I remember, the echoes of empty rooms where hope was the only voice that stayed. Still, I do not carry bitterness. Because the girl who fought the worl...

  They folded your uniform with the careful quiet reserved for endings— each crease a goodbye no one dared to say aloud. A flag replaced your warmth. Cold metal took your voice. And suddenly the world spoke to me in hushed fragments, as if grief were fragile— as if it might shatter if named too clearly. But they do not hear the second heartbeat I carry— soft, insistent, asking questions my body cannot answer. Your child turns like a whisper beneath my ribs, like a story still searching for its beginning. How do I tell this life that its father became memory before it could become a name on its lips? At night, I press your dog tags against my skin— metal meeting breath— and for a moment they warm, as if memory itself refuses to stay cold. You left in boots that promised return, with laughter stitched into your jacket pockets, with tomorrow still folded in your hands. Now the wind moves through your absence, through sleeves that remember shape but not touch. They say you died for a n...

 The war does not end,  when the guns grow tired. It lingers in the cracked walls, in the silence of streets that once carried laughter. A rusted helmet half-buried in dust remembers a name no stone was carved to hold. Boot prints fade, but the earth keeps the weight of marching. In the quiet fields where bullets once argued with the sky, wildflowers rise without asking who won. Children now run through broken corridors, their footsteps echoing where commands once lived. War leaves no monuments as honest as its remains— a bent spoon, a torn photograph, a letter that never reached home. And somewhere beneath the growing grass, the past breathes slowly, waiting for the living to remember.

I long to be loved the way jasmine loves the mango tree— not with the urgency of storms that arrive loudly only to vanish by dawn, not with the hunger that consumes more than it creates, not with hands that grasp yet never truly hold, but with the patient devotion of something tender that understands how to grow slowly, how to wait for the right season, how to climb softly until it becomes part of another soul. I long to be loved in the language of roots and fragrance, where nothing needs to be shouted to be known, where affection moves quietly through bark, branch, leaf, and bloom, where presence itself becomes a form of prayer. Let it begin gently— with kindness laid down like fertile earth, with trust watered daily, with laughter falling like first rain on thirsty ground, with eyes that listen before lips begin to speak. Let love not rush us. Let it learn our silences, memorize our wounds, trace the old fractures we hide beneath polished smiles, and kiss them not with pity but with ...