Silence.

Beautiful little things, London 2025

If you can’t say something nice,
don’t say anything at all.

Lately, words feel like needles
thin, precise, relentless.
They stitch themselves into my patience,
buzz like bees in a jar,
waiting for my silence to split.
It’s always the little things
the crumbs,
the nagging,
the measuring.
“It’s 5 cm to the left.”
“You’re too complicated.”
“Why don’t you smile?”
“It’s not your job.”
“It’s useless.”
“How would you know? You’re just a girl”
“Just do what I tell you.”
“Can’t you just clean the dishes?”
“Why are you crying? It’s manipulation.”
Each phrase lands like dust
harmless alone,
suffocating together.

I want to open a door
and not flinch at what waits behind it.
I want warmth that doesn’t ask for perfection,
a silence that feels like peace.
So today,
I’ll look for something beautiful
a small, ordinary sweetness,
like an orange I haven’t peeled yet,
waiting to remind me
that sweet and sour taste I once loved.