MEDMIMI

Last days in college

I wish I had the balls to say a proper good bye.

I’m excited to go home to be with my family but I’m leaving uni without saying a proper good bye to my family here in school.

My mouth is tightly shut like I’m charged for how many words that proceeds out of My buccalcavity in a day. They say speak out , or speak to someone but that’s something you would never catch me do. I’m so string and it’s painful, I’m absorbing so much that I know one day I’d burst. I’m in so much pain but I’d eat rice tonight and smile. Because people care about me, but I’m tired of always being the one with problems or opening up.

Now here’s a thing they say after graduation you will start working and your parent would rest from having to provide for you, and there’s me with all skills but a madter of none and willing to learn more. Also me that wants to be a surgeon, and I’m stuck at trying to find a job to carry my siblings and in school and kill my dream, a decision I’d always leave to regret. But, who’s gonna handle the bills of medical school now.

I have a dream, I have got plans but I’m exhausted in holding on, I’m drained , and I am tired and ready to let go , cry and breath a different kind of air.

I’m so scared to open up, to tell my friends or a friend about how I feel, I’m emotionally unavailable for love and yet I believe in true love , but I’m exhausted and hanging in here till my high school sweetheart comes for my hands in marriage.

Oh God, I’m tired 😫

Lying in bed

I am heartbroken again , seems like it’s a monthly symptoms

Everytime I am lying alone on the bed, I think of you. Yes it’s sad that yet after 3 years I can’t hit my chest and say I have healed 😔. I am so disappointed that it’s a struggle.

Here I am reminiscing on how suffocated I felt in school, when you pass me, when you come close to me or when I smell you from afar. I don’t understand why I felt that way, because I don’t know why we broke up yet again I am here without you, clutching on my chest because you left me without keeping any of your promises.

We would travel the world and do God’s work you said, I’m your future wife you reassured, I’d get you a pink huge Teddy now you left without any of these words being fulfilled. I hold back the tears I cried on December 2qst last year because I signed and promised my self not to go back yet my heart failed again and again. And had to be courageous enough to ask you those questions I couldn’t get answers from you physically and you said for some reasons you can’t tell me what I need to hear,you played a sneaky game and lied. I still remember 3rd of December with your blue sweater siting outside the cold while you hold my palms and warm it back to life to slide in a promise ring saying, I should WAIT for you to get ordained in ministry and you will come back for me.

I felt I wasn’t enough and I need you to hug me and tell me how much I meant to you without mincing words, tell me everything you did to me internationally and unintentionally I promise I’d forgive you, I really promise I won’t hold any of your offences against you, I don’t see or imagine myself with anyone yet. You have been my world and I am still waiting but I am not getting any younger darling. I am tired of missing you 💔I am sorry for all i said, i foguve you please just come back to me😪 . A goodbye hug maybe.

Until wr meet again in the future porkies.

11:59 December 31st 2025 ❤️‍🩹The Year I Finally Let You Go.

A goodbye I practiced for two years and finally meant.

As soon as the clock slips into 11:59 p.m. on December 31st,
I am letting go of you
leaving you tucked into the final chapter of 2025,
where you belong,
where I’ve held you for far too long.

I hear I can still talk about you.
Bet! just kidding.
Or maybe not.
Because part of me still clings to the ghost
of what we never became.

But truly, honestly,
when the last minute of this year arrives,
I’m walking out of the memory of you
I’ve carried since 2023,
leaving with whatever pieces of myself survive.

I can’t keep holding onto someone
who said I manipulated him
just by him asking me out
someone gentle and kind,
or maybe simply faithful to his Christian nature.

Someone who walked on long before I did.
Someone who healed in places
I am still bleeding from.
Someone who probably doesn’t remember
the sound of my feelings pouring out.

Maybe my confession was too frequent,
too raw,
too early.

So let me say everything now 🌬️
everything I swallowed,
everything I rewrote in my head a hundred times
but never spoke out loud.

I am sorry.
I am so sorry for offering you my heart
when yours wasn’t open.
I’m sorry for stepping forward
when you weren’t ready to move.
I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted
not enough,
not right,
not the version of perfection
you thought you needed beside you then.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you,
even though we dated.
Because toward the end,
when you broke my heart,
you slowly disappeared
unreachable,
like a ghost I could no longer see through.

Technically, there was nothing to lose.
But my chest still aches
like something real broke anyway.

And now I see you with them.

My roommate streaks me your picture
as you both stroll through the night,
side by side,
wearing matching Sunday colors.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.

She leans close to you
like she knows the parts of you
I only hoped I’d touch someday
the parts I hoped you’d share with me.

All I can say is congratulations.
I am exhausted,
and I can’t wait anymore.

You look good together
like a story that finally found
its right beginning,
like I was the third party all along.

She’s sweet.
And you look lighter, happier
like you stepped into something
that finally fits you better
than I ever could.

I hear she cooks for you,
even your favorite meals.

I sincerely pray the best for both of you.
And I say sincerely
because I mean it more deeply
than you’ll ever know.

Still, I’ll talk about you
until this year runs out
in poems,
in journals,
in whispers tucked into the quiet corners of my thoughts
where your name still echoes.

I’ll hold your memory
until December 31st,
right up to the edge of that minute
before midnight folds the year shut
like a tired book.

But when the clock strikes 11:59,
when that last second trembles
on the rim of goodbye,
I’ll let you go.

I’ll leave you in 2025..

And even if my chest pulls tight,
even if I miss you
in ways I’ll never admit again,
every poem I wrote for you,
every piece of my heart
I stitched into words
even the ones you never had the chance to hear,
the ones I never posted on my blog
I know you follow
I’ll delete them all.

Not out of anger.
Not out of bitterness.
But because some stories
are meant to remain unfinished.

And some people
are meant to stay
in the year they broke you.

I haven’t been brave enough
to let you go since 2023.
But this is it.

My final truth.
My final promise.
My final release.

When the clock hits 11:59 p.m.
on December 31st,
I’m leaving you behind.
No looking back.
No holding on.

Just the soft ache of moving forward
from someone
who moved on first.

If Purpose were the only currency

List three jobs you’d consider pursuing if money didn’t matter.

If money didn’t matter, I’d build a life centered around purpose, impact, and love doing the things that bring me joy and draw me closer to God’s plan for me.

I see myself as a medical surgeon, using my hands to bring healing and hope to others. There’s a sacred kind of fulfilment in helping someone get a second chance at life it’s ministry in its own way. Alongside that, I’d be a photographer and videographer, capturing stories, emotions, and memories that speak even louder than words. Through the lens, I’d freeze beauty, pain, and victory, the rawness of human experience.

I’d own a restaurant, a warm and cozy space filled with flavour, laughter, and creativity. I’d learn to cook foreign dishes, not just for skill’s sake but to connect cultures and hearts through food. Cooking, to me, feels like another way of showing and sharing love.

At the same time, I’d embrace my creative and expressive side, becoming a media influencer, spoken word artist, and motivational speaker. I want to use my voice and platform to inspire, to heal, and to remind people especially women that purpose, faith, and confidence can coexist beautifully.

My heart also beats for service. I’d start an NGO focused on sickle cell awareness, women’s health, and medical outreaches, reaching communities with care, education, and hope. I’d stand as a women’s affairs influencer and feminist, advocating for strength, equality, and grace, showing that women can lead with both power and compassion.

I also see myself as a reproductive health counsellor, helping people understand their bodies, choices, and worth from a place of wisdom and faith. And someday, I’d love to walk beside my husband in ministry as a pastor’s wife who supports, teaches, and loves people deeply.

If money didn’t matter, I’d simply live to heal, to teach, to create, to serve, and to love all in a way that glorifies God and changes lives.

Becoming…

What have you been working on?

Right now, I am building quietly
between pages of anatomy notes, furthering in MBBS
and prayers whispered over my sleepless nights.

I am learning the language of bones and destiny,
where the heart means so much more than muscles and nerves,
and my soul studies hard, too.

The world calls it final year,
but I call it becoming:
becoming the woman who survived deadlines and discomfort,
who found grace in fatigue,
who dreamed of healing not just bodies,
but lives.

There’s a soft fire in me
a steady rhythm between purpose, passion, and preparation,
and though the journey is loud with exams and endings,
I walk it with the calm of one
who knows that God writes better conclusions
than fear ever could.

I’m a private journal

What’s something most people don’t know about you?

For some reasons most people don’t know that silence is my favourite form of expression. I might seem social or outspoken, but I draw my real strength from quiet moments, the kind where thoughts unfold like pages in a private journal. It’s in that stillness that my creativity lives, where I write, reflect, and rebuild. Beneath everything I show the world, there’s a part of me that treasures depth over noise, meaning over moments, and peace over popularity.

Lazy Days

Do lazy days make you feel rested or unproductive?

Some days I melt into stillness,
like sunlight stretched across the floor
no rush, no race,
just breath and being, nothing more

The world can wait, I tell my self.The list can fade to gray,
for even clocks grow tired too,
of ticking life away.

But somewhere in the hush, I hear
a whisper, soft, unkind,
Shouldn’t i be doing more?
It murmurs in my mind.

Yet peace is not a crime to feel,
nor slowness such a sin;
perhaps my soul must learn to rest
to find its strength again.

So I’d let the hours drift like clouds,
unmeasured, calm, unplanned
for a moment of rest is not the loss of time,
but time held in my hands.

It Hurt, God, it Hurt

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.

I remember sitting there in a room full of laughter, voices bouncing like music, and still feeling invisible. Everyone seemed connected, like bright threads weaving together, but I was just… dangling at the edge. Smiling so no one would ask, but inside I was screaming.

Friendship wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be safe, warm, and soft. Instead, it felt like glass breaking beneath me—cold, sharp, cutting me open in places no one could see.

I reached out. Not for pity. Not because I wanted to be rescued. Just for someone to notice. Just for someone to steady me. But there was only silence. And when the replies finally came, they were empty—dressed up as excuses, but all they really said was: you don’t matter enough.

It broke me. It truly did. Because how can people you thought cared about you look away when you’re falling?

It hurt like betrayal. Like being the song, no one sings anymore. Like being the empty chair no one misses. Like being the story, everyone stops reading before the ending

And I thought maybe it was me. Maybe I’m too much. Maybe I’m not worth the effort. Maybe I’m always the one asking and never the one being chosen.

But then I realized something—falling out of place doesn’t mean I’m unworthy of love. It doesn’t mean I am less. It means I was sitting in the wrong circle. Around people who didn’t know the value of what they had.

Yes, it shattered me. But slowly, I’m learning that broken things still shine. And one day, I’ll find the friends who lean in, the ones who don’t measure or delay, the ones who hear my silence louder than my words

So yes—it hurt. God, it hurt. But pain has a way of clearing the fog. And through the ache, I found my ground again

And now, even standing alone… I know I was never truly lost.

Loving in the wrong direction

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.

I thought your arms would be home,
a place where my storms could rest,
but slowly, I learned
I was only visiting,
never rooted.

Your laughter was loud,
but it never called my name.
Your eyes searched the room,
but never stopped on mine.
And in that silence,
I shrank

I gave pieces of myself
like fragile offerings,
hoping you would build a shelter with them,
but you only scattered them like sand,
forgetting they were once my heart.

That was the moment
the sting, the clarity
when I realized
I had fallen out of place in your love.

And yet
though it broke me,
it also freed me.
Because falling out of place
meant I could finally walk away,
finally seek the arms
where I will never feel too much,
never feel too little,
never question my worth.

When I fell out of place in you,
I discovered the truth:
I am not hard to love,
I was just loving in the wrong direction

Now I knew better.

A flame 🔥 in fragile glass

The unspoken weight of pain, strength, and survival.

I wear a body that wars against me,
a ribcage that tightens like a locked door,
lungs that beg for air as though the sky
were rationing each breath.

Pain blooms here
beneath the breastbone, in the back,
in places words can not trace,
a fire that rubs ointment can’t quench,
a shadow that painkillers only hush for a while.

I reached out with trembling hands,
hoping for warmth,
but found replies colder than glass,
friends counting old silences
as though friendship were a ledger,
as though emergencies could be measured
against parties and club nights.

I did not choose this.
I did not carve sickle shapes into my blood.
Yet I walk with them daily,
a secret burden pressed into my bones,
and the world dares call me weak.

But weakness is not what studies through fevers,
weakness is not what memorizes the plexus and basal ganglia,
weakness is not what rises from a hospital drip
and still dreams of saving lives.

No!
if anything,
I am strength hidden in fragile glass,
I am flame sheltered from the wind,
I am survival clothed in silence.

Still, I ache.
I ache for home,
for the soft touch of a mother’s hand,
for the kind of care that doesn’t need
an explanation or apology,
for the love that hears a whisper of pain
and moves mountains to soothe it.

I ache for respect, not pity.
I ache to be seen whole
not as broken,
not as tragic,
but as a girl who carries storms in her blood
and still blossoms into light.

So let this poem hold me
when no one else does.
Let it testify:
I am hurting, yes.
I am weary, yes.
I am burning in the ribs and lungs,
but I am not less.

And if death hovers near like an uninvited guest,
let it know this
it can not erase me.
I am Miracle,
and even in pain,
I remain a song,
a story,
a flame that refuses to bow.