rsawriting

[rsawriting]

Being in love is the purest form of poetry - written not with words,

but with presence.

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Inhale all the weight

that’s been pressing on your chest

the thoughts, the doubts,

the breaking places.

The voices that told you, you were almost too weak to hold on.

Breathe. Inhale.

And remember, that you are still here.

Still breathing. Still becoming.

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

Oh my dear, to be in love — fallen, my heart misplaced in you.

Grey eyes, blue-flecked. Big smile, bigger heart.

And in your arms, my dear —

I want to fall again.

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

I never thought someone’s presence could make me feel so much. But then there’s you.

Just you — when you speak to me, when I’m near enough to feel your calm, when I’m in your arms and the world finally makes sense.

You don’t even have to try. It’s just something about the way you exist.

And somehow, that’s enough to make me believe in joy again.

[rsawriting]

“Don’t be afraid to love again. Not everyone is like your ex.”

— Unknown

[rsawriting]

Writing made me feel alive even on days, I thought, I won’t survive

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

We are all so desperate to be understood we forget to be understanding

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

Did I ever live in someone’s mind so loud, that night refused to let them rest?

RSA by Rania

[rsawriting]

Methinks, with every word I pen,

and every letter I let tremble from my hands,

I am soothing hearts I’ve never met

with the same softness

I once begged the world to give me.

[rsawriting]

And lo - it happened, all at once.

That feeling. The one I dared not name,

not after what the world took from me.

The colours returned, soft rose upon my cheeks, l aughter I’d forgotten how to shape. And sorrow, that old companion, fell quietly from my shoulders, like a coat no longer mine.

But hush, be gentle now. For joy is fragile in my hands. And I have known the way hope crumbles when it comes too close to truth.

Still, somewhere between his arms and the night,

I see again. Not the world - but myself.

And I wonder:

Shall I step forward? Or stay where it is safe, in the arms of my knowing?

But what if this path —thiis trembling step — leads not to ruin, but to all I ever lacked?

I thought such things once. And was left with nothing.

I dreamed once, and awoke in ash.

Yet in his presence, something soft stirs. A memory of what it felt like to be unbroken.

And so I dream again. Quietly. Recklessly.

Perhaps I am in love. Or perhaps I am simply mad enough to believe that this time the good might stay.

But perhaps…

that is love. To believe.

Even now.

[rsawriting]

Perhaps —

’tis but another reason to go quiet again.

To let the world speak while I slip back into the softer silence of not being understood.

Or perhaps,

‘tis the call of old habits, those I once laid down

like weapons, swearing I’d never lift them again.

But they know my hands too well.

And I; I forget how to stay clean.

Maybe this, whatever this is,

is just another failed becoming.

Another breath spent, trying to be someone

I was never meant to hold.

Or maybe, it’s just reason enough to sever the strings.

To cut loose every voice that pulls me away from the one thing

I’ve never dared fully be: myself.

[rsawriting]

I think love is just finding someone to stand next to while the kettle hums. Not someone who brings you roses, but someone who knows where the knives live and never hands them to you blade first. Someone who doesn’t ask if you’re okay; just pours a glass of water and waits while the shaking runs its course.

There’s something holy about peeling oranges in silence. About letting your hands do the talking when your voice has left the room.

Love is barefoot on cold kitchen tile, when someone else rinses the dishes you couldn’t even look at.

Not out of romance. Out of recognition.

Because real love isn’t loud. It doesn’t knock. It stays.

It’s the almost invisible things. A pan moved off the burner before it burns. An avocado opened, before you even knew you were hungry.

It’s not about the kitchen. It’s about having somewhere to place your grief while the water boils.

Love is someone who lets you fall apart softly, without flinching. And hands you the salt like it’s a kind of forgiveness.

[rsawriting]

I am the embodiment of everything you’ve been looking for. You see in me what you’ve never found in anyone else, what you’ve searched for your whole life, without even knowing the shape of it.

And now here I am. Standing in front of you, not as a fantasy, not as a version, but as myself. unfiltered, unfolded, unapologetically whole.

With eyes darker than midnight, and circles even darker still. With curls I never quite tame, and a laugh that dares to exist; unfazed, unashamed,unmistakably real.

I am not perfect. But I am honest. And that, somehow, makes me unforgettable.

[rsawriting]

I think I’m going mad. Utterly. Completely.

Losing touch with reality in a way that almost feels like art. Yes, I’m losing my mind. And the worst part?

I don’t even know why.

Is it emotion? Is it longing? Is it thought?

Or something in between, something that twists the air around me and calls it love, or loneliness, or both?

What is this doing to me? with me?

Am I unraveling? Falling in love?

Or simply aching to be seen?

No. No, not feelings. Surely not that. Never that.

But still I break; somewhere between “I want to spend time with you”

and

silence that stretches across the entire day.

This is not clarity. This is not peace. This is the in-between. And it’s starting to sound

like me.

[rsawriting]

We’re all a little messed up

flawed in ways we can’t even begin to see in ourselves.

But we are. And honestly, maybe that’s okay.

Because this world, it’s not exactly a soft place to land.

You can try being the kindest soul alive, and still,

the weight of this world will wear you down,

slowly, quietly.

Not enough to break you, but just enough to steal those tiny sparks you once carried with so much hope.

The ones that made you believe you could save the world. Save the people. Save yourself.

From all this.

[rsawriting]

I have gathered you, each ghost, each name.

Not in my life. Not in my bones.

But in something inked and unbecoming,

Something I shall never shed.

A weightless weight, eternal and mine.

You became books. Not people. Not flesh.

But letters lined in aching rows,

Emotions pressed like dried-out petals, Tears I never let fall,

Mourning sewn into syntax.

You are more than shadows of yourselves,

Yet far less than you ever believed to be.

You are.

And I let you be.

Within my stories, through my words,

With everything I feel

And never said aloud.

[rsawriting]

I had it all.

The dinners, the dresses, the kind of love that takes good pictures in bad light.

I had the nights filled with elegance, with menus I couldn’t pronounce and laughter that didn’t belong to me.

I had roses so large I could barely see past them

and still, I held them close.

I had rooms with too many mirrors,

and none that reflected who I was becoming.

I had it all.

But none of it held me.

Because what I needed…

was never dressed in gold. It didn’t sparkle.

It didn’t announce itself with perfume or promise.

It was quiet. It was soft.

It was the kind of joy that doesn’t beg to be seen

only felt.

I didn’t want the kind of love that walks ahead of me, leading the way like a performance.

I wanted the kind that walks beside me,

barefoot, unrushed,

aware of the weight I carry even when I say, I’m fine.

I didn’t need a life full of moments that look like memories but feel like silence.

I needed space to laugh without etiquette.

To breathe without expectation.

To be young, not in age, but in spirit.

To forget the weight of the world long enough to remember who I am beneath it.

I didn’t want constant motion. Not always more.

Not always next. Sometimes I just wanted stillness.

A safe kind of quiet. A freedom that didn’t need to be bought. A love that didn’t need to be earned. A day that didn’t require me to perform.

What I needed, was someone who could sit in the silence with me, and not flinch.

Someone who could hold joy without breaking it.

Who could love me without the costume, without the lights,

without the version of me I created to be enough.

I had everything. Maybe. But I never had that.

And nothing ever felt like home again.