Experts say being a mom is terrific. Days filled with hugs, kisses, and joy. Spare me! Put any of those experts in my car, and they’d choke on their theories in a heartbeat. My three kids were screaming like cockatoos in the backseat while we sat trapped in L.A. traffic. I gripped the wheel, dreaming of the beach. Tomorrow. One last ocean escape before summer ends. That’s the plan… Or at least it was until my husband ruined it.
For months, he’d had his eyes on a new Tesla. No surprise that the moment I walked in the door, he yelled: “We are picking up Tesla tomorrow! 4 pm!” excitement spilling over every word. “What? I told you, tomorrow we are going to the beach,” I insisted. “No. You’ll drive me to pick up the car,” he confirmed without looking at me.
So much for relaxing in the sand, even though I desperately needed a break; now we were picking up Tesla—4 pm—the exact window to wreck my day. The kids were thrilled. My husband was ecstatic. And I was… pissed. I saw children’s crescent grins and asked myself: Why wasn’t I excited about a new car? I know I should have been. Because it never mattered what I wanted. They just assumed I’d tag along, like I’ve always had. I was their 24/7 full-service robot.
The next morning proved it. Coffee reheated twice. Reading my book was interrupted by a pounding fist that demanded ‘Mommy!’ And before I noticed, I was back on duty on my supposed day off.
At four o’clock sharp, I was standing ten feet away, watching my family worship a shiny-blue beast that hijacked my Sunday. It reigned in the parking lot, staring me down, mocking my resentment. The kids bounced around in a frenzy, smudging their fingerprints across Tesla’s spotless body, while my husband walked around beaming.
A man in a blazing red Tesla T-shirt and biker sunglasses burst out. He attacked the car with a bright-yellow rag like a soldier on parade, buffing the exterior. But he could hardly keep up with my kids, who undid his work in seconds. I laughed to myself, seeing his worried face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. I wondered if I looked like this when I cleaned at home.
Instantly, the humor evaporated. I realized I envied him. He—the man wiping cars—had a paycheck, a lunch break, and the occasional ‘thank you.’ Me—a mom with a so-called fancy (yet completely useless) law degree—had none of that. I stood in my well-tailored trousers and a silk blouse—presentable outside, but hiding swollen eyes behind sunglasses. Had anyone come close, they’d see the tears burning underneath. But nobody dared to approach. I was too damned well-composed. I stared at my family, realizing that I didn’t fit in this moment. Not in this car.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice broke my thoughts. “Do you mind taking a picture of me in my new car?” A curly blonde dude politely held out his phone. With the sun against his back and a big smile, he looked like an Inca sun god. I smiled and almost bowed. But the glare of Tesla beside him spotlit the true god on this lot. “Of course,” I replied and snapped a few shots from different angles. “Thank you,” he radiated gratitude. Then he slipped inside the car and pulled away.
Meanwhile, my husband asked the kids to remove their shoes before entering. Shoes lined up immediately, as if this Tesla was a temple. “Holy Tesla,” I whispered, jaw hinged open. I was stunned. Since when? When did he start caring about shoes? At home, they tramp through the living room as if it had a built-in self-cleaning feature—another reminder that it was time to move on and begin a new life. Reality barged in when I heard my kids already fighting about the seats, while my husband paced around the car like a lunatic, searching for imperceptible scratches.
Why do I keep calling him my husband? Maybe because, legally, we are still married, and “father of my kids” sounds too harsh, considering that we all share a roof. Yet, I was happy for him. Very happy. He’d worked hard, climbing his legal staircase steadily, each step rewarded with a raise or a promotion. And now he’s reached the wheel of his dream.
And my dreams? They’d been shot off with a silencer a long time ago. That car was the reflection of my own grief—my life passing, my career sacrificed to care for my kids. Almost as if I looped a leash around my neck, handed it to them, and let them drag me behind, like a cow to the market.
“Congratulations on a new car.” The red shirt delivered his well-rehearsed line. I blinked in surprise. “The kids are happy,” he continued with a dry smile. “We all are,” I lied, thinking: I hate that fucking car. I glanced one last time and waved them off. But nobody noticed me from inside their new Tesla.
I turned toward my old, faithful Subaru, roasting in the sun, heat shimmering above the roof. The thought of driving without air conditioning made me sweat. But I didn’t care. It was twenty minutes of quiet freedom on the way home—all mine. I rolled down the windows, let the breeze in, and turned up reggae for a perfect beach vibe.
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
I was meant to bloom— unfurl, sing, and shine, not be tended or trimmed, not molded for duty and possession.
I was meant to bloom, not decorate an entropic cave, not drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness with the sweetness of my effervescent petals— infusing their spoiled, sour strands.
Even in the drought, I drank rainbows through my veins. My tendrils breathed warmth into soil, while the sky hid behind clumped clouds. I stretched toward muffled sunlight.
I was meant to bloom.
And then it rained, not to nourish or cleanse. Poured. Unstoppable— the ground swelled, my petals sagged, roots dislodged, my garden drenched to swamp.
Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow. They nest in my shade, leech my youth, and — call it love.
Slowly, quietly, I sink.
Still—
Dreaming of butterflies, even a wilt can reach the sun. Single ray ignites its desire.
Butterflies will come And I will bloom… as I was always meant to.
Author’s Note: Not everyone who stands tall is thriving. Not every flower is there for you to pick. For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken… This one is personal. 🌸
Author’s Note: This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂
I don’t want to think what’s right— what’s right anymore?
I’ve been doing all the right things: behaved right, got the right degree, married the right guy…
Still, I ended up in the wrong place— or the wrong end of the right place, at most.
A precise blueprint, yet wayward— disarrayed, veering off the ideal design.
I’m incomplete. Misaligned.
Isn’t that right? For me—it’s wrong.
Why is it wrong? I did all the right things?
Why then, amidst all these rights, do I feel misplaced— a lucky penny lost in a dry desert, gleaming in the sun, yet inconspicuous in the sand— Blindly chasing paths marked right or wrong.
Incongruous.
Why is it wrong, doing what feels right?
I’m tempted to do what’s wrong— forbidden, There’s a thrill in rebellion, a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.
But what if it’s not wrong? And perhaps even right— right for me.
So, if I do wrong things, maybe at least I’ll finally feel right.
Author’s Note: I’ve always wanted to write a passionate scene, even though, in my opinion, romantic plots are often overdone. Still, many horror stories I’ve read miss something… that subtle romantic subplot showing the soft and vulnerable side of the character. I needed to make sure my story didn’t overlook this aspect. True and authentic love is incredibly hard to find, right? Maybe that’s why we turn to books, hoping to glimpse and experience its magic through the characters we follow. Yet, if you’re lucky enough to experience the perfect kiss even once in your life, you’re truly fortunate. It’s worth the wait! On that note, as a self-proclaimed romantic, I had to weave this delicate thread into my dark story, obviously. 🙂
Here’s a glimpse of that moment from chapter 14 of my project, without giving too much away. ❤️
He put both hands firmly on her face, preventing her from slipping away. There was no way he would let her go this time. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
Before Nayah could respond, his lips found hers, soft and gentle at first, but full of hunger and intensity, waiting for her for far too long. She realized in that instant how much she wanted this—wanted him—more than she had ever admitted. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand sliding into his drenched hair. Her fingers dug in, feeling the tenderness of his skin. It was soothing and addictive—his warmth against the cold rain.
His hand shifted to cradle her neck, drawing her closer, as though he would never let her go. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was the way his entire body leaned into hers, every movement charged with meaning. His chest pressed against hers with desire to fill the spaces she had kept hidden from the world. Nayah responded, releasing a soft sigh. Her knees buckled slightly, but she shifted closer, seeking more of him. The kiss wasn’t just physical; it was an unraveling, a collapse of the last walls between them.
For a moment, nothing else existed—no haunted houses, no missing journals, no demons or keys—just this.
But the passionate kiss was interrupted when a sudden, loud crack of thunder reverberated beneath their feet. They pulled apart, both gasping, startled by the sound.
Nayah stepped back breathless. “What… what was that?” “I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight with unease. The sky had darkened even further, thick clouds rolling in, casting the town square into a dark twilight. But something else felt off. Nayah sensed it—a prickling fear crawling over her skin.
A dreamy glimpse of you, and the whole Universe disappears. Irresistibly captivated; I venture into the cosmos of your glowing eyes— The only two stars left in the vast multiverse, so dazzling; so bright.
I dive into their stellar space… Eclipsed in the moment, I surrender to your orbit, Lost, like a silent asteroid in an endless cosmic sea.
Tangled in the gravity of your embrace, Time slows, a mystical clock suspends its hands. Only a breath divides us. I gravitate toward you, like stardust drawn to light. The magnetism of your heart pulls me near—so near my pounding heartbeat dances with yours, a cosmic rhythm— Two souls meeting the unknown.
Yet, you bring me closer, and our breaths melt into one.
In the heat of supernova passion, my eyes close; like clouds veiling the sun, awaiting the magic astral tick… Our lips collide; like two meteors in a vast galaxy, Painting a new constellation of unspoken promises.
In the stillness of the night, I sit by the glowing campfire, Embraced by an endless blanket of warm stars. I lean my head on the moon’s shoulder, And he envelops me gently with his radiance, Shielding me from the encroaching shadows of loneliness.
I stir my dreams in the cauldron of twilight, Each bubble—a wish sent on a moonbeam, Every string of steam—a spiral of hope, For your fleeting gaze to fill the hollows of my heart.
Like a Witch amidst the dancing flames, I fervently invoke the celestial light. Could I cast a spell to attract your affection? No… I can’t… I won’t bewitch your heart… I loathe cursed adoration. I shun false and deceptive masquerades.
Still, Evil sneaks in with his deceits, Haunting me with wicked lures of delusion, Invading my thoughts, polluting my consciousness. At night, when darkness closes my eyes, His demons plunge their claws into my bleeding heart.
Yet, bolted to the sacred stone of pristine sincerity, I tower tall, siding with purest honesty, Inviting blooming, genuine love. I yearn for crimson passion, an ethereal weave, And your heartfelt desire for me—rooted deeply in utter truth.
I nurture a single seed of hope that One day, a flicker of your attention Will find its way to me And ignite sincere feelings for me.
Why is love so elusive? Do the flames’ gentle flickers hold the answer? Their tender whispers enchant me, Soothing my heart as I wait for you. For I cannot erase you from my mind.
Have you noticed that you can’t fake having a great time? Think about those photos from your happiest moments—genuine joy always shines through, right? You wouldn’t be snapping pictures if you weren’t truly enjoying yourself. Even selfies meant to show off on social media are usually taken in fantastic places or during significant events. This weekend, I experienced something that profoundly clarified this for me. As I looked at some pictures, I perceived more than just sincere smiles. I uncovered something unexpected and deeply revealing about capturing genuine happiness.
On Saturday, I went to a friend’s birthday party. For the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a kid’s party! I mean a real grown-up party! It was a small gathering of a few close friends and their children. The kids played inside a big house while the parents sat outside on the patio, overlooking the beautiful San Fernando Valley. The sun was shining brightly, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of desert flowers, making it a perfect June afternoon.
As we cracked jokes, sipped our drinks, and relaxed, we noticed the sun beginning to set. It seemed like the ideal time to watch it from the surrounding secluded rocky-desert landscape. We decided to go for a short hike around the property. The lone-standing house was at the top of a mountain with no neighbors nearby. The air was crisp, and our giggles echoed in the vast, open space. As we ventured out to watch the beautiful sunset, we climbed some rocks and snapped a lot of amazing photos. There were more jokes and lots of laughter.
Today, I looked at the photos, and surprisingly, almost all of them turned out great! Even the group photos show big smiles, lots of teeth, and glowing eyes! I was amazed by how genuinely happy everyone looked. There was no major posing; the photos captured spontaneous moments of delight. It was exceptionally wonderful! I realized that genuine happiness is unforced and naturally caught in moments of joy. It cannot be fabricated! It is evident in natural, unrehearsed expressions and interactions.
Reflecting on these moments, I recognize their preciousness. In a world where so much can feel staged and superficial, it’s the authentic experiences that truly matter. Our photos are not just images; they are memories of laughter, connection, and real fun—not meant to show off or impress anyone. They remind me that the best moments in life are often the simplest, shared with those we care about most. They allow to appreciate the value of spontaneous joy and genuine connections. Don’t let these moments slip away. Recognize and cherish them, for they serve as luminous lighthouses radiating strong and bright in our ordinary, sometimes dark days—the true highlights of our lives. Sometimes the simplest and ordinary points in time are the most amazing ones!
Wolverine Lily 