Bellatrix Star

21/05/2025

“The Silence and the Voice”

Before I turned fifteen, I was a girl like all the others, a child cradling dreams too vast for her small hands. I wanted to become an air hostess, a dentist, a teacher. I dreamed of building a shelter for the poor—offering them care that felt like home, a warmth they could claim as their own.

I watched TV shows and horror series, heard tales that sparked laughter and others that left echoes of sadness. I was a girl like all the others, but somehow different from every girl I knew.

I was silent. I think it was because of the way my father told me that the brain dries quickly—like clothes left under the burning sun—when you share your instant thoughts and questions.

Questions about the weather.
Why some people are tall, others of average height, and many others small.
Why some voices rise like thunder and others sink like whispers.

He silenced me, and so I became silent. And that was the turning point.

Until I turned fifteen, when I discovered something powerful and secret. I could speak words they couldn’t understand—words they couldn’t speak. I found a way to be alive again. The day I discovered I could speak poetry.

From then on, I sat before the television in my favorite spot, on my favorite chair, but this time I silenced the TV. I let my voice speak, mumble, and sway however it wanted. It stumbled at first, then grew bold.

I told myself I needed more words, more poems, more voices like mine. I reached for another poetry collection beyond Songs of Life by Abu El Kacem El Chabi. I needed to breathe again. To feel alive again. A part of me had to die for another to be born.

Whenever it felt like a tightening grip around my neck, I spoke poetry. I read poetry. It was the only way to release the pressure, the only way to find air.

Years later, they heard my voice—my words pouring from my room. I poured my soul into poetry. And he wondered aloud: “Does she ever speak?”

I heard him, but I never answered. Now, I can.

Yes, I can speak. But not in the way you understand.
Yes, I can speak. But I choose silence over words in your presence, and words over silence when I feel truly heard.
Yes, I can speak. But not to you. I speak to those who came before me—to Abu El Kacem El Chabi, Mahmoud Darwish, Nizar Qabbani, Fadwa Tuqan, Nazik Al Malaika.
Yes, I speak. But in your presence, I lose my voice, I lose my words, I lose my identity.

Now, I reclaim them. Through poetry, I breathe. Through poetry, I exist.

19/05/2025

De mes 12 à mes 25 ans, j’ai toujours mis les besoins, les opinions, le plaisir et les décisions des autres avant les miens. Il y avait toujours quelque chose qui n’allait pas, je n’étais jamais pleinement heureuse. J’étais une « people pleaser », mais malgré tous mes efforts, ce n’était jamais assez. Puis un jour, j’ai compris : peu importe à quel point je suis “bonne”, je ne serai jamais assez bien pour certains. C’est ça, grandir : arriver à des conclusions avec le temps. Il m’a fallu plus d’une décennie pour réaliser cela.

À partir de mes 25 ans, j’ai décidé de me choisir moi : mes besoins, mes opinions, mon plaisir, mes décisions. Et je n’ai jamais été aussi heureuse.

La décision t’appartient entièrement : toi… ou eux.

From 12 to 25 yo, I've put everyone else's needs, opinions, pleasure, decisions prior to me. There was always something wrong, I wasn't entirely happy, I was a people pleaser however they were never pleased enough. And suddenly I realised no matter how good I am, I can never be good enough. And this what being a mature is all about. Coming to conclusions by fullness of time. How ever it took me more than a decade to realise this From 25 y.o I decided to choose me, my needs, opinions, pleasure and my decisions over any one and I've never been happier.
Decision is totally yours, whether you … or them.

Ouled Moussa City

Here’s a ready-to-copy list of hashtags tailored for your reel about the writing and creative process, with a focus on poetry, books, and inspiration:


, , .

18/05/2025

Dear Memory,

After a sweaty cardio class at Gym Brothers, the thought of treating myself—really taking good care of me—floated into my mind like a breeze through a quiet window. So I walked to Pied d’Or, almost without thinking, drawn by the soft promise of self-love. I bought new sneakers, the kind that whispered you’re doing great with every step. Then I gave in to something deeper—a fire towel back massage. The warmth against my skin felt like forgiveness. Like love I forgot I owed myself. Later, while the nail artist bathed my hands in Himalayan salt and dried flowers, “Wildflower” by Billie Eilish played through my earbuds. And just like that, my mind became a reel of memories. I wasn’t in a salon anymore—I was scrolling through scenes from another life.
And then she arrived—Lana Del Rey. Like a guest who never knocks, but always belongs. Her voice cracked open something soft in me. Her songs reminded me of fine summer nights with Jojo. Jojo—the girl who crafted silence and wore it better than words. She didn’t speak much, but her presence filled entire hours. So many memories, all tied to the same person. Always her. The way her stillness turned ordinary moments into something niche. It made me wonder: were those days truly special by themselves, or was everything simply transformed in her presence?
I still don’t have the answer. But I know what I felt. I felt seen. I felt safe. I felt like every version of me—tired, joyful, heartbroken—was welcome. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night—the first time I watched The Great Gatsby. The lights were off. The windows wide open. A warm summer day had folded into a cool, peaceful night. A breeze wandered through the room, touching everything like a secret. Even the doors stood open, as if welcoming something sacred. And there I was, sitting in silence, heart already full before the film even began. I had read the book. I knew the story. But watching it brought it to life in a way words never could. Seeing the characters move, breathe, fall in love, break apart—it was like watching pieces of myself being put on screen. Leonardo DiCaprio was Gatsby, yes, but he was also something more. He was longing. He was hope. He was the ache that never fully goes away. When he died, something inside me cracked. I mourned him for days. Not just him, but every dream that ever ended too soon. Jojo was the only one who understood that kind of grief without asking questions. The kind of person who didn’t need words to sit beside your sadness. We used to study together at campus, coffee in hand, sitting beneath the framboise trees. We talked about everything and nothing—our fears, our joys, the things that made us feel alive, and the things that made us want to disappear for a while. We were part of a student committee once, defending voices that went unheard. We planned trips, wrote proposals, and somehow managed to find joy in it all. We went to museums, to beaches, to amusement parks that smelled of childhood and roasted almonds. We laughed on buses that rattled like old hearts and held onto each other like the world was spinning too fast.
Even the smallest things felt niche. A late lunch after lectures. Preparing dinner while jazz and soul played in the background. Staying up so late we forgot what silence meant. Waking up dizzy but happy. We had so little, but life felt like everything. Jojo made ordinary days feel like summer. Not the hot, harsh kind—but the soft one. The one that smells of peaches and linen, where time slows down and you finally remember how to breathe. I don’t know how she is now. I don’t know if she ever thinks of me this much. But when Lana Del Rey plays, or when a gentle breeze touches my skin, I remember. I remember us. I remember how alive I once felt, and how that girl—who wore silence like velvet—helped me fall in love with life without saying a word.

Maybe some people are just seasons.
Just seasons.
Maybe Jojo is my favorite season.
Jojo is—
is summer.

Love,
Me

17/05/2025

“A poem about finding strength in the shadows — MRKH, silence, and selfhood.”

Hi everyone,
This is one of the rawest poems I’ve written. I was diagnosed with MRKH, a condition that often feels invisible to the world but very loud in my heart. Through poetry, I try to give a voice to what I can’t always say out loud — the grief, the anger, the solitude, and also the quiet strength that grows from it.

I’m sharing this piece in hopes that someone else might feel seen. Whether you relate or not, thank you for taking a moment to read.

Feedback, reflections, or even silent empathy — I welcome it all.

Here’s my poem:

Anisette Confessions

I sip my anisette
in quiet sips.
Sun’s still asleep,
but I’m leavin’ tips
and headin’ upstairs—
to the room that holds
my truest self
in shapeless molds.

No need to pretend.
Just me—and the end
of the lady’s whispers
from the other side.
She wears her straps
like battle cries.
I bear the whips
without disguise—
no praise, no kiss
on wrist or hips.

In silence I peel
my painted gloss,
wipe off the mask,
and count the cost.
A broken heart
in trembling hands,
Xanax tucked
like contraband.

Facing mirrors, cracked and cold,
grievin’ MRKH alone.
What’s the worth
of breasts so bare—
if they don’t feed,
or nurture care?
This tiny womb
won’t give me birth,
yet here I stand
to weigh its worth.

In this shell of quiet retreat,
I whisper truths
no tongue repeats.
N**e as pain,
I curse the lies—
what’s the point
if change still hides
beneath these same
old body lines?

While others brag
in glittered threads,
drippin’ gold
on empty beds—
still takin’ pills
to rest their heads.
Quetiapine dreams
and silken sheets,
but none can lift
their weighted weeks.

I swing from rage
to careless ease,
a storm that dances
with the breeze.
South to west,
then back again—
lost in the eyes
of a framed amen.

I was shaped
from darkened dust,
handed light
then told to trust.
I walked through night
with aching feet
chasin’ suns
I’d never meet.

A letter left
with no address,
titled Exotic Delicacies.
It said:
“When the sun dips low,
so follow the stars—
relentless in glow.”
Signed:
“Yours faithfully,
The Lovely Iris”

So here I sip,
my iced glass,
in tiny cups
of no regret.
Paris lit
with neon breath—
I stared into
the eyes of death.

Sippin’ my iced glass,
in glassy moons,
confessin’ fears
in haunted tunes.
A stranger passed
at Saint Denis—
and I let spill
what ruined me.

16/05/2025

15/05/2025

Some Flowers Bloom in Hell – A raw and haunting collection of poetry that speaks to every soul who has ever suffered, healed, and risen again.
Let your pain bloom into power.
Grab your copy now and start your journey of healing.

For more info, contact us on: 0550 58 74 28

بعض الزهور تزهر في الجحيم – مجموعة شعرية صادقة ومؤثرة، لكل روح تألمت ونجت ونهضت من جديد.
دع ألمك يتفتح قوة.
احصل على نسختك الآن وابدأ رحلة الشفاء.

للمزيد من الاستفسارات أو الطلب اتصل بنا على الرقم الاتي:

0550 58 74 28

Would you like a slightly different version for each day of the 5-day campaign, or are you planning to stick with one strong message throughout?

23/03/2025

A Place Among the Pages – SILA 2024

For years, I have lived between the lines, weaving my soul into verses, letting poetry speak where I could not. And now, my words have found a home—not just in books, but in a space where stories breathe and voices come to life.

This year, I am honored to be part of The International Book Fair of SILA 2024, standing among storytellers, dreamers, and lovers of literature. SILA is more than just a gathering; it’s a place where ink meets hearts, where pages turn like seasons, where poetry lingers in the air.

To be here, to share this journey, is to witness words finding their way home. See you there, among the stories waiting to be told.

30/05/2024

Art in its purest forms is resistance, so we fight with no swords or arrows but with stout voice and daring words ..🇵🇸

29/05/2024

الجمهورية الجزائرية الديمقراطية الشعبية
كل الشكر لوزارة الثقافة و الفنون لدعمها اللا منتهي للفنان و الكاتب و الشاعر .
كل الشكر ل السيدة والي ولاية سيدي بلعباس
و المجلس الشعبي البلدي لبلدية سيدي بلعباس
كل الشكر لمجهوداتكم الجبارة و على هذه الالتفاتة الرائعة للكتاب بإقامة الصالون الوطني للكتاب بطبعته الأولى بولاية سيدي بلعباس بالتنسيق مع مؤسسة لصفر للمعارض ✨

24/05/2024

Would it be that strange?
What if we can be strangers
From strangers to friends
Friends into lovers
Never strangers again
What if things can truly change
You hold some of my past
I carry with me your present
We carry on lovers ceaselessly.
What if things can surely change
Would it be that strange.

Zahira Rahmouni

24/05/2024

I always go back to the poem titled "Stranger" To see you again. Your charming presence, your kindness to offer a lady a coffee without knowing her. Exchanging short talk. That' poem's the cosy house you live in whenever I miss your I step in the porch of your verses embracing your soft words just to feel again what I felt.