thalarawrites

[thalarawrites]

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"I'm an Aston Martin that you steered straight into the ditch, then ran and hid."

If man-hater were a person, I’d be her.

Sabrina Carpenter's "Because I Liked a Boy" trails behind me as I walk, the beat echoing every bitter thought in my head. I slow my steps outside his place. Through the window, I see him—sipping tea like he’s at peace with the world. Calm. As if he hasn’t left a mess behind. As if I’m not the one getting slut-shamed for something he did.

My fingers tighten around the bat in my right hand, the tip dragging gently along the pavement. My gaze locked onto his figure. Emotionless. Succesfully made me feel like I was special. The only one. Whispered things that felt like promises. Held me like I was rare. And yet, behind my back, still keeping his options open like I was some trial version of love.

He left me with nothing but doubt. Made me feel like a woman passed around, touched by many man and discarded. I spent days wondering: What if I were different? I excused him—told myself maybe he was just emotionally unavailable, maybe he just needed time. I romanticized the wound.

But who was I kidding?

I was the rebound. The easy one. And just when I began pulling myself out of the hole he dug and said we could have it all.

But this time, I’m smarter. I refuse to be anyone’s second choice. I chose to walk out. But the news broke from the twisted hero for not wanting to hurt me. It was me they pointed fingers at. The homewrecker. The slut. The girl who was too much and not enough at the same time.

But I stayed silent, because if he thinks I’d go to war with another woman, he’s dead wrong. This was always between him and me.

"Whether I'm gonna be your wife or gonna smash up your bike, I haven't decided yet. But I'm gonna get you back."

And tonight—I chose to smash the fucking bike.

I turned on my heel and walked away. Slow. Steady. Not because I wanted him to watch, but because I didn’t care if he did.

The sound of metal crunching under the swing of the bat was oddly satisfying. The guilt. The shame. The smallnessieces of plastic and paint chipped off like dead skin.

I dropped the bat, let it roll down the driveway like the drama it no longer deserved. And as I disappeared into the night, I whispered to myself, with a smirk:

“Next time, choose a woman who doesn’t carry a bat.”

[thalarawrites]

Commence The Banquet

I don’t know if it is a sin or not. When I feel like the relationship isn’t going to work anymore, I tend to break up with them in my head first, moving on silently while still giving love-bombing gestures. I love without feelings, so when it becomes real, I can protect my heart first.

DDLG? I guess it’s not everyone cup of tea.

If you wish for my my commitment? Then yes, I need you to claim me. I don’t want to be your secret love songs, because I love loudly.

“Doll, I watch you.”

I can appreciate the positive aspects of our friendship, but I’ll draw clear boundaries when their harmful behavior begins to affect me. I choose not to involve myself in their recklessness.

I would say I prefer being single. But if I had to choose, I think the first one (a). After all, it is actions that truly matter.

Most definitely.

He was a friend of my dad, visiting to talk about business and other things. Little did he know, I call his friend Daddy too. I wandered around the house in a tight see-through tank top and a risky pair of pink silk shorts. When Dad had to leave for the family restaurant, I made sure his friend was—well taken care of.

Gosh. Yes. His penis is bigger than my rational thoughts.

“Tomorrow is a big game, I need you to be my lucky charm by putting my cock inside your pretty cunt.”

Fell in love again? I’ve sworn countless times to stay away from that feeling. To fall in love feels like a sin I keep repeating.

Oh, how I love slipping into something so daring, with nothing beneath to hide me. No bra, no covers, just skin and invitation. It makes it all the easier for Daddy’s hands to wander and claim what’s his.

Nope.

I think I’d choose one of the girls. I have never hooked up with a woman, would love to try.

Yes, the Daddies.

“Lara, you’re worth the love”.

I’m learning that both are part of healing, not punishment.

One night stand.

I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope. A greater woman wouldn't beg, but I looked to the sky and said, "Please".

This is my first time hearing the trend if I’m being honest tho. But again, I’m not into that kind of dynamic. If I want to be with someone, I’d declare myself on top of the roof.

Nope. I set my boundaries clear.

When he rolled up her sleeves before touching me, more of his skin met mine. What can I say? I, shamelessly, a slut for him.

I did, back when I was younger. The guilt still lingers inside me. So if I may offer one piece of advice—don’t.

Approach?

🍷

🍷

[thalarawrites]

Ohana Means Family

Lately, I’ve found myself completely enchanted by the Lilo & Stitch live action. It’s more than just a movie to me, it feels like a doorway back into my childhood. Watching it has stirred something tender in my heart, awakening memories I didn’t even realize I still held onto. I remember being little and wishing on falling stars, hoping with all my heart that I could have a Stitch of my own. Maybe it’s because I saw a bit of myself in Lilo. She was a little island girl, full of dreams and imagination, just trying to find her place in a world that didn’t always understand her. And in so many ways, that felt like me too.

Watching it reminded me again of the word Ohana. We’ve heard it so many times—Ohana means family, and family means no one gets left behind. It made me pause. Sometimes, in the rush of everyday life, we forget about the most important family we have. The one who has stood by us quietly, unconditionally, through highs and lows. The one who has carried our pain, shared in our laughter, and whispered courage into our hearts when we thought we had none left. That family is. . . Me.

So often, we forget to thank ourselves for surviving, for trying, for not giving up. Instead, we blame ourselves—for not doing enough, for feeling too much, for failing to control what was never in our hands to begin with. We leave ourselves alone in the darkness, when what we need most is our own light.

The truth is, you matter. I matter. We matter. There’s something deeply healing in the act of coming home to yourself. Of looking inward with kindness instead of judgment. Of wrapping yourself in the same love and patience you so freely give to others.

I’m proud of us. Truly.

- Thalara. Bali, 2025.

[thalarawrites]

I Ache to Be the Pause in His Chaos

𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝘩𝑒 𝑖𝑠, irresistibly hot during an important meeting, using every bit of his brilliance. He burns…. brighter? Oh, how I ache to be the pause in his chaos mind, the soft distraction he surrenders to.

I watch him from behind his laptop screen—me, sprawled on the rug, playing doctor to a teddy bear with a bandaged knee. He insisted on leaving the door open, said he wanted to keep an eye on me. Maybe it’s true. Maybe he just likes having me close. Or maybe—just maybe—it turns him on, knowing I see him like this. Sharp. In control. Powerful.

The teddy has its prescription. I’m done with play. But watching him… the way he speaks, commands, leads… the dominance seeps out of him, the same kind he brings into bed. And now, beneath my soft silk panties, warmth turns to want. Wet want. His want.

I shift, slide his oversized shirt—his shirt—up my thighs, baring skin I know he can’t ignore. And just like that, the poised, cold leader of the room chokes mid-sentence. A flicker in his gaze. A stumble in his breath.

“You may present your report, Frans,” he says, voice tight, then mutes the mic. His eyes darken like a storm rolling in. “Daddy’s still in a meeting, doll,” he murmurs, a low groan laced with warning—and want.

I grin, wicked and sweet. “I know.”'

Yet still I step closer. As I approach, I swing one leg over and settle myself onto his thigh, slow and intentional, making sure he feels the warmth and slick ache that’s been pulsing between my legs. He stiffens beneath me, a beautiful reaction I drink in. Letting my breasts fall into view—bare, soft, exposed. A private display, meant only for his eyes, and he takes it in like a man starved. His hand rises, fingers brushing my skin, before he cups me with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. He kneads slowly, coaxing a soft moan from my lips, one I can’t hold back.

[thalarawrites]

The Coitus Mug

The sun rose early over Canggu. The streets brimmed with flip-flopped wanderers and lovers on scooters, drawn here by the long weekend and the lazy call of the sea.

And there was Lara, already manning her tiny stand that proudly showcased her artisan nudity-themed ceramics.

Her booth was modest, intentionally set a little farther from the main path. Not quite hidden but half-shaded under a frangipani tree. Displaying from pretty flower mugs and bowls with itsy-bitsy kitten nestled inside—to boob-shaped cups and nipple-pierced jewelry bowls.

Even located there to keep wandering kids away from mature pieces, her stall still drew a steady and curious crowd. Locals and tourists know Sunday Lathe for its eccentric charm, and Lara herself is somewhat of a Canggu darling thanks to her Bali-friendly, open-hearted energy.

Lara’s work was never loud, but it lingered in memory. And today, she had 𝑠͟𝑜͟𝑚͟𝑒͟𝑡͟𝘩͟𝑖͟𝑛𝑔 𝑛͟𝑒͟𝑤. Undeniably suggestive.

Something for lovers who like their coffee a little steamy. Introducing you to :

SundayLathe

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐆

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Available Online & Offline

Medium : Hand-thrown stoneware

Glaze : Earth-skin blush with subtle matte finish

Edition : Limited Pair

Price : 1.2MIO / pair

A cheeky price for a cheeky piece, where art flirted, and clay remembered how to feel. 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙗 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙬!

[thalarawrites]

The Unguarded Heart

As the dry-humid season arrives, the little one finds herself overlove anything. Summer always seems to awaken something bold in her, like she's the main character of her own tale. She often catches herself wondering: why love feels easier during summer. Maybe the answer is that simple, perhaps it's because Lara is in love with the version of herself that summer brings out. When you begin to truly love yourself, the world finds its way to mirror that love back. It feels like she’s finally stepping into the art of loving, losing, and still choosing gentleness.

There was a version of her that came alive in the sun, the one unafraid to feel everything, even too much. That version danced barefoot on warm tiles, wrote poems on napkins, stared too long at sunsets, and believed that love was still worth the risk. That version of Lara didn’t armor herself against the world. She welcomed it, heart first.

With the tiny little dance on her bare feet, she was ready to face anything. Recklessly, beautifully. To learn the art of giving her heart without hesitation and losing what wasn’t meant to stay. The unguarded heart isn’t weak. It’s the bravest kind of love there is.

[thalarawrites]

Selamat Hari Kartini!

21st April 2025

It was a busy Monday. Lara had a jam-packed schedule of teaching since morning. Guess people are extending their annual leave after the long weekend. She even forgot to grab lunch. Luckily, this was her last class. You could tell from her clay-covered apron that she had worked hard today. Her back was killing her from bending over the lathe and demonstrating techniques to her students. That’s why Pilates should really be a weekly routine for her.

Lara was carefully trimming a pottery piece made by one of her students, placing it on the finishing table before it went into the kiln. Her student was a teenager—probably still in high school.

“Terima kasih, Kak Lara, udah ngajarin! Kak, sorry, do you love the life that you live?”

I froze. Do I like it? The hectic days when Bali is in high season? The aching back, dirty apron, and ruined shirts? Smelling like burnt pottery every day? Not to mention pulling double shifts when Ibuk’s restaurant is fully booked?

But I nodded, a smile plastered across my face.

“I love it. Apalagi kalau ketemu murid kayak kamu. Kerja kayak main aja, hahaha.”

Lara could see the sparkle in the kid’s eyes.

“Aku selalu kepingin punya studio kecil dan bisa pindah ke Bali. You’re so kind, Kak—probably that’s why you deserve all these good things. Aku mau rajin belajar biar punya banyak uang terus buka studio kayak Kak Lara! Living the life that I want!”

And just like that, her heart warmed. All the fatigue seemed to vanish as she realized how ungrateful she had been while a young dreamer looked at her life and saw a dream come true.

“Kak Lara, foto yuk! Aku ada tugas dari sekolah buat ceritain ‘a woman that inspires you’ buat Hari Kartini!”

Kartini? Is it today? She remembered her name—Raden Ayu Kartini. A woman who rose for the nation’s daughters. A fearless pioneer of women’s rights and education, lighting the path toward freedom and equality.

Without her, women might still bow beneath the weight of patriarchy. The fact that it still exists in today’s world is a powerful reminder: Kartini’s fight is not over, her legacy must live on through us.

“Aku mau ceritain Kak Lara sebagai Kartini aku,” the girl said, making Lara’s eyes start to water.

She nodded, “Kamu Kartini aku juga. Dengan kamu janji rajin belajar aja, itu udah lanjutin perjuangan Kartini. Ayo foto, aku juga mau simpan foto sama Kartini-ku!”

• • •

The polaroid of Lara and the girl still sat on the table. The studio lights were off, the “Closed” sign hanging on the door. Lara set down the mop, ready to end the day in her tiny, humble studio. She pinned the photo onto the announcement board, smiling at the memory and how, just like that, she began romanticizing her life again.

Kartini fought. . . so we, women, could live the life we wanted.

[thalarawrites]

His Little Doll

Don’t get me wrong—I aspire to be that independent, unapologetic woman. But there’s a part of me that melts at being called 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙡𝙡. I think of it like it’s not about weakness, it’s about feeling safe enough to surrender to your man.

Safe enough to stop thinking, stop doing, stop carrying the world on my shoulders. I love the idea of a man who can take the lead—not with arrogance, but with strength that’s laced with tenderness. A man who respects me enough to see the weight I carry and says, “You don’t have to do it all, not with me.”

And in that space, I don’t want to be in charge. I want to fall apart in the most beautiful way. I want to be his calm, his softness, his little doll who doesn’t have to worry about anything except feeling adored.

“Come here, doll.”

“Let Daddy take care of the rest—you just stay pretty and soft for me.”

“I said sit here, let me brush your hair… slow and gentle, just like you deserve.”

“Doll, don’t go over there. If you get even a scratch, I’ll burn the world down.”

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart. You’re way too pretty to be speaking like that.”

It’s not about giving up power. It’s about choosing to trust someone with it. For a woman who has been on survival mode all her life, that kind of surrender is something she treasures.

[thalarawrites]

Nyepi Caka 1947

After finishing her prayers at the pura, she gently tucked delicate cempaka flowers behind her ears, their soft petals carrying the lingering fragrance of devotion. A bindu adorned her forehead, a sacred mark signifying the purity of her intentions and the depth of her faith. A reflection of the divine blessings bestowed upon her by Hyang Widi

Rahajeng Rahina Nyepi Caka 1947. Mugi ring warsa anyar puniki, jagat rahayu, ati tentrem, lan bhakti ring Hyang Widhi tetep suci.

Lara strolls down the street with her Balinese Kebaya, her sweet smile a warm greeting to everyone passing by. Today is a joyous day for the Hindu community, and she shares in their happiness. The sun shines brighter, casting a warm, gentle glow on her pale skin. She lifts her head, letting the ocean breeze and salty air wash over her, softening her scent and caressing her skin. Her heart overflows with love.

“Gég, ayo ke pantai dulu. Kita taruh canang sarinya di sana juga,” Mom's voice pulls her back from her daydream.

Mom is a true Balinese—beautiful with her warm, sun-kissed skin. Her hair is tied in a ponytail, just like hers. It’s no surprise Dad fell in love with her, enough to leave his home and start anew in a different country.

Thalara runs, her feet sinking into the soft, sun-warmed sand. Deep inside, she is still that little girl with bouncy ponytails, rushing with uncontained joy. As she reaches her spot, her body bends gracefully, hands carefully placing the canang sari on the ground. Closing her eyes, Lara surrenders to the moment, whispering a silent prayer.

“Jika tresna enggal nemuin tiang dumun, tiang ngarepang tresna punika dados alus miwah anget. Sanadyan tiang kedah ngadhepin rasa patuh, nenten langkung nyakitang dibandingin ri kala dumun.”

[thalarawrites]

Poems of her

Hello, sweetheart.

This is Maisie speaking, I’m the writer behind Thalara Oleander!

If you’ve stumbled upon this message, I want you to know just how much it means to me that you’ve taken the time to read my writing. I am grateful for the moments you’ve shared with my words.

I am here to write Thalara as a woman who romanticizes her life and lives to the fullest in Bali—an island paradise where she becomes the love she has been searching for.

So the next time you visit Canggu and have some free time, she’ll always be your friendly Bali neighbor. Let’s meet with Lara and write something together!

Most ardently, Maisie.