May 2026: Aftertaste
A poem never begins when you write it.
A poem begins in the atoms that make your skin, your air—
in the electricity of exchange, in the invisible shift when something touches something else.
My new poem Aftertaste lives in moments like these.
And at the same time, my life right now leaves an aftertaste in my mouth: sweet, almost delicate, like strawberry cream on a warm tongue.
Even though I feel most at home in rumination, in melancholy, in depth, there is something I cannot turn away from when spring starts leaning into summer.
Everything feels like transition.
Relocating into my dream home, a new feline companion settling into my life.
And four poems of mine that will soon be printed in Los Angeles.
Ravishing. Delicious. Sweet.
Aftertaste
Can I feed you with strawberries?
You look like someone Tarantino
would put in one of his movies.
Can I taste your lips after
you ate some of my strawberries?
I’ve never known a scent
so pleasant in years.
Can you make my shirt smell like yours?
By holding me close until
I forget where you end
and I begin.
Triptych of Coercion
I. Premonition
A turning face—
a second, fractured
by your gaze.
Eyes closing.
Knowing crossing
from your universe
into mine.
II. Setsuna
Orange tides.
Deep waves knot
into the night.
A knife enters
soft white—
light breaking
into fireflies.
III. Wortseele
Oscillation—
honeyed at daybreak.
A bright-green pulse,
acid, electric,
language shedding
its skin.
February 2026: Finding the Voice Again
With everything unfolding in the world right now, writing has felt heavy—at times, even obsolete. For weeks, every word I put down seemed to pale in comparison to the weight of current events.
But I can feel the tide turning. Every day, it becomes a little easier to shake off the silence. I’ve used this period of reflection to revisit and refine older projects, breathing new life into work that was waiting for the right moment. I am thrilled to share that I’ve started submitting again, with several new publications already in the pipeline.
Most importantly, I am currently seeking the right home for my first “official” poetry chapbook. It’s a collection that feels more vital now than ever, and I can’t wait to share more updates as this journey unfolds.
Thank you for staying with me through the quiet.
December 2025: Reflection Period
Now it’s that time of year to look back and reflect, and I can’t help myself from doing the same. I have been writing a lot this year, and I can’t deny how much it has helped me through very difficult times.
In 2025, I achieved my first official publications, and I am beyond happy about it. I don’t know why it took me so long to share my writing with the world, as I’ve been writing poetry for years. But somehow, 2025 felt like the right time, and I am deeply thankful to all the editors who read my submissions and published my work. I am also grateful for the rejections—they taught me a lot as well.
This year, I also finished my first chapbook, which I plan to submit for official publication rather than publishing myself. I’ve sent it to a chapbook competition, which is both exciting and a little frightening. Let’s see where it goes—perhaps my first official chapbook will be published in 2026. That would truly be a dream come true.
There are also a few more single poem publications in the pipeline, and I am so happy to share my work, my heart, and my soul with readers from all over the world. I can’t help but feel that this is just the beginning of my journey.
xx
Vanessa Rose
She doesn’t cry anymore
She doesn’t cry anymore.
Not because
she can’t feel-
because
she no longer knows
what to cry for.
Should she cry for the woman
murdered for saying “no,”
for standing her ground?
Hurting a fragile ego?
Should she cry for the sister
shot by her brother,
for choosing freedom
over tradition-
and daring to say so?
Should she cry for herself,
as she remembers
how he hit her:
first with words,
then with fists,
while she wore a fragile smile,
a quiet mask,
keeping up the show?
Should she cry for the women
left alone
to make impossible decisions,
judged instead of held,
doomed by guilt,
some left to die
with no one standing by?
She doesn’t cry anymore.
But maybe one day
her tears will return-
not from pain,
but from the rising chorus
that joins her own voice.
Buried in Blue
At first,
it could not be seen—
fleeting words,
whispers turning into screams,
between sweet promises
and a diamond ring.
Later it bloomed on my chest—
like a buried flower,
my secret,
opening without my consent,
turning from blue to purple,
and then into green.
Even now,
I see it—
when I undress in soft light,
not the mark,
but the memory
of the pulsating blue,
beneath the skin,
that turned fragile and new.
ba-dum
ba—dum
ba…
dum
08/25/25
Honoring the journey that began two years ago with my debut poetry book
Vanessa Rose Poetry 