You love me
like a dare whispered at midnight—
reckless, grinning,
already halfway gone
before I can answer.
One day you hold my face
like it is something holy,
thumb brushing my skin
soft enough to convince me
I am safe with you.
The next,
you turn distant as winter glass,
cold enough
to make me question
if warmth ever happened at all.
I have memorized your contradictions.
The way your eyes beg me to stay
while your actions teach me to leave.
The way you pull me close
only to joke about my feelings
when they become too real.
You make love feel
like standing barefoot in a storm—
beautiful for a moment,
until the lightning remembers
what it was made to destroy.
And still,
I search for hidden meanings
inside every cruel laugh,
every mixed signal,
every silence stretched too long.
Because loving you has turned me
into a translator
for pain.
I tell myself
you are just scared,
just wounded,
just a boy pretending not to care
because caring would expose
the softness beneath your skin.
But some nights
I wonder if you enjoy
watching me chase certainty
through the maze you built.
You say my name
like it matters.
Then disappear
like it doesn’t.
And the tragedy is not
that I love you—
it is that loving you
has made me suspicious
of tenderness itself.
Now when you touch my hand,
I no longer ask
whether it feels good.
I ask
how long before you let go.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 11:22 PM UTC
You wore kindness like perfume—
sweet enough to hide the smoke.
I mistook your careful words
for honesty,
mistook your listening
for love.
I handed you my secrets
like flowers pressed between pages,
soft things meant to survive time,
and you carried them
only to let the wind tear them apart.
You laughed with me
in rooms full of light,
then built shadows behind my back
where my name sounded unfamiliar,
twisted into something cruel.
The worst part was never the lying.
It was how safe I felt
before I learned the truth.
I replay our conversations
like cracked records,
searching for the moment
your friendship became performance,
wondering if it was ever real
or if I simply loved the idea
of being understood.
Now I know
some people hold your heart
the way children hold glass—
carelessly,
without knowing how sharp
the breaking becomes.
And still,
I hate that trusting you
made me doubt myself
more than I doubt you.
Because fake friends leave twice:
first when they betray you,
and again when they make you afraid
to trust someone honest.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 10:18 AM UTC
I met a boy
with stormlight in his eyes
and gentleness hidden
underneath his ruined edges.
The kind of boy
you do not notice all at once—
he arrives slowly,
like winter sunlight
through cracked blinds,
until suddenly
you realize he has been warming you
for months.
And God,
I love him quietly.
Not in loud declarations,
not in movie scenes,
but in the way I memorize
the shape of his laugh
to replay when I cannot sleep.
In the way my anger softens
whenever he says my name
like it means something sacred.
He loves me too.
I know it.
Love lives in the spaces
between our almosts.
Almost touching hands.
Almost confessions.
Almost becoming something
real enough to ruin us.
Because there is another heartbeat
standing between ours.
My friend.
She says his name
like she owns the right to ache for him,
and maybe she does.
Maybe grief makes people territorial.
Maybe loneliness teaches them
to clutch things
that were never truly theirs.
And I hate myself
for resenting her sadness.
Because if I chose him,
I would lose her.
If I chose her,
I would lose myself.
So I stand in the middle
like a bridge collapsing from both ends.
People think betrayal
is sharp and obvious—
a knife,
a slammed door,
a cruel sentence.
But betrayal can look gentle too.
It can look like
smiling while your chest caves in.
Like pretending you do not love him
when every atom inside you
leans toward him naturally,
the way flowers ruin themselves
for sunlight.
Sometimes he looks at me
with that unbearable softness,
and I can feel the future
begging to happen.
But neither of us moves.
Because love is not always enough.
Because timing is a cruel god.
Because loyalty and longing
share the same bloodstream
and both are killing me slowly.
So I keep him
like a secret tucked beneath my ribs.
Not mine.
Never hers.
Just a tragedy
we carry politely
so nobody else has to feel it.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 12:15 AM UTC
I fell in love
with a boy I was never supposed to touch.
Not because he was cruel,
not because he did not love me back,
but because another girl
loved him first
and left pieces of herself
inside his bones.
My friend.
She speaks about him
like a house fire—
something beautiful
that burned too hot to survive.
And I sit beside her
pretending my hands are clean
while hiding sparks in my mouth.
Because he looks at me differently now.
Not with the empty politeness
people use to survive each other,
but with recognition.
Like somewhere along the line
I became familiar to his soul.
It is a dangerous thing
to be understood by someone
you cannot have.
Sometimes I catch him staring at me
when laughter fills the room,
and there is something devastating
in the way he quickly looks away—
like we are both trying
to protect a crime
that has not happened yet.
My friend would hate me for this.
Not for loving him—
love happens accidentally—
but for letting him love me back.
That is the unforgivable part.
So I silence myself daily.
I carve my feelings smaller,
teach them how to fit
inside casual conversations
and unfinished sentences.
I become an actress
in my own life.
I say, “We’re just friends,”
while my heartbeat betrays me
like thunder behind closed doors.
And the worst part is—
he understands.
There is grief
in the way he keeps his distance.
A sadness in how carefully
he speaks to me,
as if one wrong word
could collapse everything.
Sometimes I wonder
if we would have loved each other openly
in another universe.
One where loyalty
did not demand self-destruction.
One where timing
was kinder to people like us.
But this universe
gave me his almosts.
Almost holding his hand.
Almost kissing him.
Almost hearing him admit
what already lives
between every glance.
So instead,
I carry him quietly.
Like stolen light
hidden beneath my skin.
And maybe that is what heartbreak truly is—
not losing someone,
but meeting the right person
at the wrong moral crossroads
and choosing pain
because you still want to be
a good person
when this is over.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
“Am I beautiful yet?”
I ask the mirror
Like it is a god
Capable of granting worth.
It studies me coldly,
Fluent in every flaw.
The uneven skin,
The tired eyes,
The mouth that always seems
On the verge of apologizing.
So I learn to measure myself
In smaller ways.
In the number of heads that turn.
In compliments that dissolve by morning.
In photos filtered enough
To resemble someone easier to love.
I become a construction project—
Shaving away pieces of myself
To fit inside other people’s hunger.
And still,
At the end of every transformation,
The question survives.
Am I beautiful yet?
Not prettier.
Not desired.
Beautiful.
As if beauty is a gate
And everyone else was handed a key at birth
While I remain outside
Knocking with bleeding hands.
But maybe the tragedy is this:
The mirror was never answering me.
Only selling me another reason
To keep asking.
And maybe beauty was never meant
To be something earned through suffering.
Maybe it existed long before
I began bargaining with my reflection.
Still, some nights
I stand there under dim light,
Searching my own face
For evidence that I deserve softness.
“Am I beautiful yet?”
The silence hurts most
Because part of me still believes
The answer determines
Whether I am worthy of love.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 9:41 PM UTC
Loving you is like standing
Outside a house at dusk,
Watching lights flicker
In windows that never fully open.
Sometimes you look at me
Like you are almost home.
Like there is a language inside you
Trying to become real.
But then you turn away,
Confused by your own silence.
I think the hardest thing
About loving someone uncertain
Is that they give you fragments
Without meaning to.
A softer voice.
A longer stare.
Hands that linger half a second too long.
Tiny mercies
That grow into unbearable hope.
You hold my heart
Like someone holding a letter
Written in a language they cannot read.
You know it matters.
You just do not know what it says.
And I cannot blame you for that.
Maybe some people are taught
To fear the depth of their own feelings.
Maybe love arrived in your chest
So quietly
You mistook it for friendship.
Maybe you are still searching yourself
For the courage to name what is there.
So I stay here—
Not waiting,
But becoming familiar
With the ache of unfinished things.
Because loving you has taught me
That uncertainty is its own kind of grief.
Not the grief of losing someone,
But the grief of standing close enough
To touch what could become love
And never knowing
If it will choose to exist.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 9:19 PM UTC
I think you love me
In the quiet ways people do
When they’re afraid to say it too loudly.
In the way your eyes search for mine
Across crowded rooms.
In the way your voice softens
Only when you speak to me.
In the way you stay,
Even when you could leave.
And God—
I love you too.
So much that it terrifies me.
Because loving you feels like
Holding something fragile in shaking hands.
Like standing at the edge of happiness
Wondering when the fall begins.
I keep thinking
I’ll ruin this somehow.
Say the wrong thing.
Feel too much.
Care too deeply.
Become too difficult to love.
Sometimes I rehearse disasters in my head
Before they’ve even happened.
I imagine you waking up one day
And realizing I am too complicated,
Too emotional,
Too human.
And yet when you smile at me
Every fear goes quiet for a moment.
I want to believe
That love does not always end in loss.
That maybe I don’t have to earn tenderness
By being perfect.
That maybe you see all my flaws already
And stay anyway.
Still, I hold my heart carefully around you,
Like a secret made of glass.
Because I love you enough
To fear breaking
The very thing I’ve always wanted.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 8:56 PM UTC
She loved him quietly,
like rain loves windows—
soft, unnoticed,
always there.
She memorized the curve of his laugh,
the tired way he rubbed his eyes,
how his voice changed
when he spoke about dreams
he was too scared to chase.
But his eyes—
they wandered somewhere else.
Toward a girl with sharp lipstick smiles
and midnight promises,
a girl who held hearts
like temporary jewelry,
wearing them only long enough
to feel adored.
He called it love.
She called it hunger.
Because love does not leave bruises
where trust should be.
Love does not vanish
when the room gets quiet
or the lights come on.
Still, he ran toward her
like fire toward gasoline,
while the girl who truly cared
stood in the background
holding oceans in her chest
and pretending they were not drowning her.
She wanted to tell him—
I would’ve loved the broken parts too.
Not just his smile in crowded rooms,
not just his hands in the dark,
but the ache,
the fear,
the silence.
Instead, she watched him bleed affection
into someone
who only loved the feeling of being wanted.
And some nights,
she hated herself for hoping
he would finally see the difference
between being touched
and being treasured.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 8:16 PM UTC
They pass each other in the halls,
Lie storms refusing to collide.
She rolls her eyes when he speaks,
Sharp tongue, sharpened heart,
Acting as if his voice doesn't echo in her mind for hours after.
He laughs with everyone else louder when she walks by,
Pretending not to notice,
How her silence changes the room.
To everyone watching,
They are fire and gasoline—
Constant tension,
Cold remarks,
A rivalry stitched together with pride.
But hatred has never looked so much like longing.
Because real enemies,
Do not memorize each other's habits.
They do not notice tiny changes in expression,
Or remember favorite songs,
Or feel their chest tighten when someone else gets too close
Yet he knows when she's upset before she speaks,
And she can read his moods from the way he shuts the locker door.
Still, they pretend.
Pretends their arguments aren't just desperate ways to stay connected,
Pretends every sarcastic comment doesn't hide affection beneath it,
Pretends their hearts don't race during every fight.
Sometimes they act like strangers instead.
Passing without looking.
Ignoring messages they reread ten times,
Speaking through friends instead of each other.
As if distance could erase what lives between them.
But love doesn't disappear just because it is hidden.
It lingers in stolen glances,
In unfinished sentences,
In the unbearable awareness of the other person's existence.
And late at night,
When pride finally sleeps,
They both wonder the same thing;
How can someone feel so much like home,
and war,
at the exact time?
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 11:26 PM UTC
They sit too close,
For two people who swear there is nothing there.
Her eyes find him first in every crowded room,
The dart away,
Like she's committed a crime.
He learns her laugh by memory,
But acts annoyed when she teases him too long,
Hiding smiles behind rolled eyes and careless shrugs.
Their friends notice.
Of course they do.
The way when silence changes when one of them walks in.
The way his voice softens for her without permission.
The way she says his name like it means more than anyone else's.
But neither say a word.
Instead they build a language out of almosts—
Playful insults,
Lingering glances,
Shoulders brushing "accidently,"
Texts that last until 2 a.m. about everything,
except what matters.
Because liking someone is terrifying,
When they hold the power to ruin your heart.
So they pretend.
He talks about other girls just to see if she cares,
She laughs too hard when a guy flirts with her.
Both of them jealous.
Both of them stubborn.
Both of them waiting for the other one to break first.
And sometimes,
In the quiet moments,
Their masks slip.
A look held too long.
A nervous smile.
A heartbreak neither can explain.
But then someone changes the subject,
Someone looks away,
And the truth folds itself back up between them.
Still—
Everyone can see it.
The love hidden inside their arguments,
The tenderness buried in their jokes,
The fear disguised as indifference.
Two people—
Standing inches from happiness,
Pretending not to notice their hands,
Already reaching for each other.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 11:11 PM UTC