Bellatrix Star

Dear Memory,

After a sweaty cardio class at Gym Brothers, the thought of treating myself—really taking good care of me—floated into my mind like a breeze through a quiet window. So I walked to Pied d’Or, almost without thinking, drawn by the soft promise of self-love. I bought new sneakers, the kind that whispered you’re doing great with every step. Then I gave in to something deeper—a fire towel back massage. The warmth against my skin felt like forgiveness. Like love I forgot I owed myself. Later, while the nail artist bathed my hands in Himalayan salt and dried flowers, “Wildflower” by Billie Eilish played through my earbuds. And just like that, my mind became a reel of memories. I wasn’t in a salon anymore—I was scrolling through scenes from another life.
And then she arrived—Lana Del Rey. Like a guest who never knocks, but always belongs. Her voice cracked open something soft in me. Her songs reminded me of fine summer nights with Jojo. Jojo—the girl who crafted silence and wore it better than words. She didn’t speak much, but her presence filled entire hours. So many memories, all tied to the same person. Always her. The way her stillness turned ordinary moments into something niche. It made me wonder: were those days truly special by themselves, or was everything simply transformed in her presence?
I still don’t have the answer. But I know what I felt. I felt seen. I felt safe. I felt like every version of me—tired, joyful, heartbroken—was welcome. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night—the first time I watched The Great Gatsby. The lights were off. The windows wide open. A warm summer day had folded into a cool, peaceful night. A breeze wandered through the room, touching everything like a secret. Even the doors stood open, as if welcoming something sacred. And there I was, sitting in silence, heart already full before the film even began. I had read the book. I knew the story. But watching it brought it to life in a way words never could. Seeing the characters move, breathe, fall in love, break apart—it was like watching pieces of myself being put on screen. Leonardo DiCaprio was Gatsby, yes, but he was also something more. He was longing. He was hope. He was the ache that never fully goes away. When he died, something inside me cracked. I mourned him for days. Not just him, but every dream that ever ended too soon. Jojo was the only one who understood that kind of grief without asking questions. The kind of person who didn’t need words to sit beside your sadness. We used to study together at campus, coffee in hand, sitting beneath the framboise trees. We talked about everything and nothing—our fears, our joys, the things that made us feel alive, and the things that made us want to disappear for a while. We were part of a student committee once, defending voices that went unheard. We planned trips, wrote proposals, and somehow managed to find joy in it all. We went to museums, to beaches, to amusement parks that smelled of childhood and roasted almonds. We laughed on buses that rattled like old hearts and held onto each other like the world was spinning too fast.
Even the smallest things felt niche. A late lunch after lectures. Preparing dinner while jazz and soul played in the background. Staying up so late we forgot what silence meant. Waking up dizzy but happy. We had so little, but life felt like everything. Jojo made ordinary days feel like summer. Not the hot, harsh kind—but the soft one. The one that smells of peaches and linen, where time slows down and you finally remember how to breathe. I don’t know how she is now. I don’t know if she ever thinks of me this much. But when Lana Del Rey plays, or when a gentle breeze touches my skin, I remember. I remember us. I remember how alive I once felt, and how that girl—who wore silence like velvet—helped me fall in love with life without saying a word.

Maybe some people are just seasons.
Just seasons.
Maybe Jojo is my favorite season.
Jojo is—
is summer.

Love,
Me

“A poem about finding strength in the shadows — MRKH, silence, and selfhood.”

Hi everyone,
This is one of the rawest poems I’ve written. I was diagnosed with MRKH, a condition that often feels invisible to the world but very loud in my heart. Through poetry, I try to give a voice to what I can’t always say out loud — the grief, the anger, the solitude, and also the quiet strength that grows from it.

I’m sharing this piece in hopes that someone else might feel seen. Whether you relate or not, thank you for taking a moment to read.

Feedback, reflections, or even silent empathy — I welcome it all.

Here’s my poem:

Anisette Confessions

I sip my anisette
in quiet sips.
Sun’s still asleep,
but I’m leavin’ tips
and headin’ upstairs—
to the room that holds
my truest self
in shapeless molds.

No need to pretend.
Just me—and the end
of the lady’s whispers
from the other side.
She wears her straps
like battle cries.
I bear the whips
without disguise—
no praise, no kiss
on wrist or hips.

In silence I peel
my painted gloss,
wipe off the mask,
and count the cost.
A broken heart
in trembling hands,
Xanax tucked
like contraband.

Facing mirrors, cracked and cold,
grievin’ MRKH alone.
What’s the worth
of breasts so bare—
if they don’t feed,
or nurture care?
This tiny womb
won’t give me birth,
yet here I stand
to weigh its worth.

In this shell of quiet retreat,
I whisper truths
no tongue repeats.
N**e as pain,
I curse the lies—
what’s the point
if change still hides
beneath these same
old body lines?

While others brag
in glittered threads,
drippin’ gold
on empty beds—
still takin’ pills
to rest their heads.
Quetiapine dreams
and silken sheets,
but none can lift
their weighted weeks.

I swing from rage
to careless ease,
a storm that dances
with the breeze.
South to west,
then back again—
lost in the eyes
of a framed amen.

I was shaped
from darkened dust,
handed light
then told to trust.
I walked through night
with aching feet
chasin’ suns
I’d never meet.

A letter left
with no address,
titled Exotic Delicacies.
It said:
“When the sun dips low,
so follow the stars—
relentless in glow.”
Signed:
“Yours faithfully,
The Lovely Iris”

So here I sip,
my iced glass,
in tiny cups
of no regret.
Paris lit
with neon breath—
I stared into
the eyes of death.

Sippin’ my iced glass,
in glassy moons,
confessin’ fears
in haunted tunes.
A stranger passed
at Saint Denis—
and I let spill
what ruined me.