Somedays, I itch to give up my writing. to shut up, to leave the fire alone and have it turn into smoke. It does not work though, because the more I write the more I want to write. and before I know it, I’ve immortalized everything and everyone in a poem.

I look at this damn unfamiliar sky and think that a year ago I was so immensely happy to be here. I turned Utrecht into a metaphor, called it a pretty boy that was dead behind the eyes.

I look back and realize I was wrong. Utrecht isn’t a boy, its just a city not meant for women like me. Utrecht taught me I have too many claws, too many dreams, too much passion
to stay in a place with so little light. 

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