*Her Life in Her Words

She came into this world crying,
small hands, soft skin,
already wrapped in expectations.
A daughter first,
a tiny thing in pink blankets,
and before she could even walk,
the world had a list of rules for her.

"Sit properly."
"Talk softly."
"Smile, be nice, don’t be too much."
She was barely five,
but she already knew what it meant
to shrink herself.

Then came the stares,
the whispers,
the warnings.
"Don’t wear that."
"Don’t go out alone."
"Be careful, always be careful."
Like danger was stitched into her skin,
like she was born into a war
she never signed up for.

And then, she was thirteen.
Her body changed,
her world shifted.
Eyes followed her home,
footsteps echoed behind.
She learned to walk faster,
to hold her keys between her fingers,
to smile just enough
but not too much.

She wanted to be a child still,
but the world decided
she was something else now.
Something to be stared at,
warned about,
protected and controlled.

"You can’t go out late."
"You can’t talk to boys like that."
"You can’t trust too easily."
She memorized escape routes,
checked the backseat of the car,
sent texts when she got home safe.
Because being careful wasn’t a choice—
it was survival.

And in the middle of it all,
she was still just a girl
trying to figure herself out.
The weight of beauty standards,
of grades, of expectations—
be smart, but not too smart.
Be pretty, but not too bold.
Be kind, but don’t let them walk over you.
A tightrope she never asked to walk.

And yet, she grew.
Fell in love with books,
with dreams too big for their liking.
She wanted to run, to dance,
to take up space,
but the world had already decided
what her life should look like.

"When will you settle down?"
"A husband, a home, a family—"
like love only had one meaning,
like success only came in rings
and cradle songs.
But she had her own dreams,
her own fight,
so she worked,
built,
proved them wrong.

Then one day,
she became a mother.
And suddenly, her body wasn’t hers again.
It stretched, it ached,
it made room for life,
while she lost pieces of herself.
Nights blurred into mornings,
her hands never stopped moving,
and no one asked if she was tired.
Because a mother doesn’t break, right?
She just bends,
over and over again.

But she kept going.
Carved a name for herself,
stood her ground in rooms
that never wanted her there.
She fought to be heard,
to be seen,
to be more than what they allowed.

And now—
years later,
with silver in her hair,
with stories in her skin,
she looks back and wonders—
when did she ever stop fighting?

The truth is, she didn’t.
Because a woman’s life
is a battle she never picks,
but one she fights anyway.
From the moment she’s born
till the day she’s gone,
she carries the weight of the world—
and still,
somehow,
she flies. – Iris*

*Do I exist in the things I write,
or am I just putting words together,
hoping they make me real?

Do I stay in your thoughts for a moment,
just a flicker in your mind,
then fade like I was never there?

Do I live in the moments we never had,
the ones that almost happened,
but never did?

Or am I just a story,
a few lines on a page,
trying to mean something?

Or do I only exist—
breathing, waiting,
lying in this bed, doing nothing?

– Iris*

*Let's say I'm the type of lady you're looking for.
The one who's silent, soft-spoken, innocent.
The kind who smiles politely, never speaks too much,
never takes up too much space.
You'd think I'm gentle, easy, kind.
Maybe even fragile, by design.

But inside—God, inside is different.
Inside, I'm something else entirely.
A little cruel, a little selfish, a little too in love with myself.
I watch people and feel nothing at all,
I listen to their stories and pretend to care,
but truth be told, I’d rather not recall.

I smile, nod, say all the right things,
but I know I’m not like them.
I don’t want to be like them.
Their world feels dull, their light burns dim.

Maybe I was born this way.
Or maybe I just decided at some point
that love is a game I don’t want to play,
that kindness is a mask I wear each day.

Either way, you’ll never know.
Because I’m exactly what you want me to show.

– Iris*

What if I told you I'm filled with hate,
not the person you think you know?
What if I said love rots, not great,
and all of this is just a show?
What if I swore it's all too late,
that all I do is sink, not grow?

– Iris

*She was walking, proudly on the road,
when her sandal broke, the one she adored.
In the middle of the street, she stood, lost.
Embarrassed? Yes, of course.

Yet more upset, as her favorite was gone,
leaving her standing, unsure and withdrawn.
"What should I do? Go back home?"
Her thoughts ran wild, her feet like stone.
The road got busier, her state grew messier.

With a deep sigh, she picked it up,
staring at it like fate gave up.
She slipped off the other, left both behind,
muttering complaints as the world stayed blind.*

– Iris

Send me an anonymous message:

*This moment—one that strikes once in a while, like a ship lost in the waves, searching for the shore, longing to reach the destination it was meant for. Yet, all that can be seen and heard is the water dancing, mocking the ship in every way possible. The ship, devoted and desperately in love with the waters, sways along, letting the tide lead, surrendering to its pull, singing along as it drifts.

This moment—one that strikes once in a while, when the tip of the pencil snaps, when the ink of a capless pen dries ever so slowly. And yet, all you can do is stare and admire, as emotions flow—raw, uneven, delicate beyond words. They cannot be penned down or spoken aloud; they can only be kept in the heart. Yet, the broken pencil, the almost-dry pen—these are still what you crave most. And the fragile, frost-kissed paper lying on the desk waits, longing, aching for words.

The lost ship and the dried pen–long forgotten. The waters and emotions—misunderstood, neglected. The shore and the paper—mere distractions.

But love does not forget. The ship will always long for the waves, no matter how lost it becomes. The writer will always return to the ink, no matter how many times the words slip away.*

*Is it normal for my head to ache, always?
For my heart to be set ablaze?
"You always wear that face,"
"Why are you angry at everything, always?"

My blood keeps boiling, my tears keep staining this face.
Is it my fault that I can’t keep up with the race*?

– Iris

*She may speak in half-truths, her words crafted with care, but her face—her face will always hold the truth, if you know how to look.

Observe her closely. Her eyes, her lips, the gentle slope of her nose, the subtle arch of her brows, the softness of her cheeks—each feature becomes a canvas, reflecting the quiet secrets she cannot voice.

Notice the delicate tremor in her lips, the fleeting twitch in her eyes, the way her cheeks seem to lose their color—as though life itself has been drained from her. She becomes like a brush left dry, aching to be dipped back into color, waiting for the gentle touch of someone who will restore her warmth.

But when happiness finds her—when joy dares to kiss her—you will see the transformation. Her eyes gleam like stardust, her lips bloom into a smile so breathtaking it feels like the world holds its breath. Her cheeks flush with the softest pink, her brows lift with wonder, and she becomes a vision—like a flower basking beneath the sun, alive, vibrant, free.

Her expressions shift like a breeze—so subtle, so easy to miss. But if you pay attention, if you truly care, you will see. You will know when she is hurting, when her spirit is worn, or when she is whole, radiant, and loved.

Words may deceive you, but her face will always tell you the story her lips cannot.

The real question is—will you be the one who looks? Who sees her in every shade—faded, vibrant, broken, and mended?

Because if you do—if you become the artist to her canvas—you will witness the most beautiful masterpiece this world will ever offer.

Her.*

(except the cake part~)