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There are places you live in, and there are places that live in you. Unfortunate Paradise was never meant to be a collection. It was a survival mechanism. I do not claim to understand life. Most days, I barely understand myself. But I understand pain. I understand silence. I understand what it means to grow up with a voice you had to teach yourself how to use, and a heart you had to unbury just to hear it beat again. This collection is not chronological. It is not linear. Each poem is a piece of me: some from my childhood, some from the version of me that broke and never quite stood straight again, and others from the strange warmth I found along the way. If paradise exists, maybe it isn't a destination. Maybe it's a brief feeling. A pause in the noise. A soft hand on the shoulder. A moment where you're not trying to escape your own body. But even those moments can betray you. Even paradise can hurt. Especially when it asks you to forget the pain that shaped you. So here it is: my unfortunate paradise. A place made of mirrors, fire, and the screams of every self I've ever been. Enter as you are. Leave whatever you must. - Sulayman

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