Poem: Not The Place To Call Home

FOREWARD.

This poem is not a recollection. It is the live feed of a woman being unmade and remade in real time. That is why it’s long, repetitive, metaphor-drunk, and refuses to be cleaned up. She was mourning the sudden loss of a potential future; while fighting desperately to hold on to the vulnerable confidence she had spent months building.

A short, elegant rejection poem would say: “I hurt, I will survive.” This poem says: “I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, I thought this time was different, I hurt, I hurt, maybe next time, I hurt.”That is the actual duration of the feeling. Anything shorter would be a lie.

The mind under trauma does not invent new images; it claws at the same ones until they bleed. Repetition is not laziness. It’s accuracy. That is how memory behaves when you’re staring at your phone at 3 a.m., rereading the same message for the hundredth time.

This is not a poem about romantic rejection in the abstract. It is the lament of a woman who has been told—by family, by friends, by the world—her entire life that she is both too much and not enough at the same time. But one man accidentally convinced her the world might be wrong. Then he unknowingly took it back.

The ending sounds desperate and cringey because that’s exactly how she sounded alone in her room the next morning, reciting reasons someone might someday want her. I’m not going to pretty it up. That would be another lie. Softening this modern tome into something poised or “empowered” would turn truth into performance.

I tried to cut it down, to refine it technically, to make it more “readable” for competitions and exhibitions. Every cut felt like doing to the poem what the world has already done to her: asking her to take up less space, speak more softly, stop repeating herself, be convenient. It was disingenuous. Preserving the raw emotion mattered more than capitalising on her pain. So, I put the knife away.

This is the original lament, left almost untouched: sprawling, repetitive, baroque, sometimes embarrassing in its rawness. It is offered without apology, the way grief rarely apologises. Readers looking for restraint will not find it here. Readers willing to sit with a woman while a lifetime of longing spills out again and again, until it finally exhales into a bruised, stubborn, almost inaudible hope, are welcome to stay.

Thank you for reading it as it needed to be—without asking it to shrink for you.

Some nights I’m still the woman who whispers “please” into the dark. Most days I’m the woman who knows her worth was never in the reply.

---

PLEASE NOTE THAT TEXT FORMATTING MAY NOT LOAD CORRECTLY ON A MOBILE DEVICE.

NOT THE PLACE TO CALL HOME.

With a sudden buzz of a phone, her heart leaps to her throat. Her pulse quickens, her hands shake. The world reduced to a single notification. A precipitous pain to her defenceless heart, hits like a piercing arrow through soft flesh.

I’m not attractive enough, she screams internally, clinging to each word, waiting for hope to return.

The hope he provided is heavy.

Its strength propelled her; each step lighter and purposeful. Her undiscovered heart had opened, waiting to be explored. The potential for a new home was present.

… … … …

An iceberg that peeks from the ocean’s surface, tempestuous waters obscuring its magnificence.

She shrinks into herself when attention is absent;

Terrified to reveal who she really is.

He approaches with a friendly face, warmth in his eyes rarely offered to her. She is seen; He notices. She follows eagerly, her heart fluttering with anxious excitement. He stands behind her, quietly observing, tall and strong, yet calm and comforting. A kind smile and a look in his eyes that says; I want to know you. Silence remains, a stillness between unspoken words; Here I am. A hug and a half-eaten sandwich; he is incredibly responsive to her. Ignoring the sandwich as it selfishly invades the otherwise inviting hug. It’s awkwardly charming. A hint of nervous energy ripples the air, as others uncomfortably look on, unsure of their place in the moment.

… … … …

Her heart skips a beat; could she be the reason he joined them?

A wave of quiet excitement washing over her.

This is the moment she had waited for all evening.

Her reason for being there.

He leads with a first comment, unsure what the moves are.

His voice calm yet inspired; she swiftly matches his cadence.

With flawless synchronicity, the chatter and music fade,

their breaths mingle, in an effortless tango of words.

The crowd disappears from their intimate vignette,

the intense candour surprisingly still.

Validation in reciprocity and discourse that softly probes,

her lyricism speaks to her intellectual arousal.

By engaging with her in a way few have tried,

her magnetic eyes flicker with enchanting confidence.

She feels truly valued for the first time.

Eyes bare the soul, so few are granted access to hers.

She buries her shame, her fear, her thoughts behind them.

He found the key and let himself in,

now she meets his eyes without reservation.

I see you; you see me.

A goodbye filled with promise of a future she dreams of,

a connection never felt, but yearned for.

A cloud suddenly steers her away from his light,

as doubt claps like thunder through her heart.

Her stomach flutters with what this is,

a trigger of her own revolution.

… … … …

She floats through her days,

joy radiating off her skin.

The fiend finally stills;

She now has strength to conquer it.

Continuing her journey, she heads right,

but an obstacle presents itself.

She was sure the path ahead was clear,

but now understands she had it wrong.

The familiar sting of rejection, now delivered with kindness.

The trauma of putting herself out there, only to leave empty-handed once more.

The muddy waters hit hard and force her retreat,

as she blames herself for reading the signals wrong again.

She steps out into the world,

only to find it hasn’t changed.

It still doesn’t value her. It doesn’t want her.

She serves one purpose; that of convenience. Nothing more.

A clock ticks back, as the possibility is erased, the light in her heart dimmer than before, but still alight. Vast and empty, but filled with promise; it’s not nothing, but it isn’t something yet. Head spinning, stomach churning, her body recoils as realisation sets in. What is lost, never was. What was felt, never true. Potential remains unrealised—unless he unlocks the door. Rugged mountains that seem impassable; Deep valleys that lead to the underworld itself. A wilderness that hums with an invisible presence, and a sun that burns close, but remains just out of reach.

Her loneliness and self-doubt like monsters under the bed, serve her anxieties as their master. She works to fill the void; to silence the voice that says she’s not enough, but the world echoes her failure into the cavernous abyss.

Just one more try and the time will be right,

but the bitter wound of denial festers and grows.

It could be just around the corner, just waiting for her to come and claim it,

but the fatigue of another journey weighs too heavy.

She cannot take what she does not reach for,

but the fear of another rejection persists like a ringing in the ear.

… … … …

She opens the floodgates to potential,

showing vulnerability that is rare and beautiful.

Whatever comes, this is the real her;

The version she kept locked away, now freed. The world mustn’t lose her; She mustn’t lock herself away again.

Instead, her hope should be protected, not hidden away;

Secured for a moment until it can be tenderly nurtured.

Incredibly perceptive, charismatic and curious, when made to feel safe, she opens completely. Her authenticity calls you to spend every moment with her,

her love lies in wait for the one brave enough to hold it.

(Please… someone. Anyone.)

---

AUTHORS NOTE:

Before I finally declare this entire saga closed and fling it into the vast, unforgiving void of the internet, there's one post-script note just for you.

If by some bizarre chance you ever stumble upon this (Hi 😊), please relax. Seriously, chill. You were just giving me the honest truth, which was basically the emotional equivalent of ripping off a band-aid, and I needed it. This entire piece is my very loud, very public mental cleanse. Think of it as personal-growth-via-overthinking. I'm the one who took a casual comment and built a four-season Netflix series around it; that’s entirely on me. I actually appreciate the experience—it was a masterclass in courage, vulnerability, and realising I should probably drink more water. I hope you never feel responsible. We're fine.No dramatic music. No post credit scene. No guilt. No weirdness. We’re good.

Spoiler alert: I’m totally fine now, probably over-caffeinated, definitely still dramatic, but good.