Your voice feels intrusive,
your memory feels contaminated.
I’m angry at you,
but I’m furious at myself
for kneeling to something so vacant and false.
Every poem I wrote was wasted breath.
I wasn’t writing to you,
I was writing onto you
a vessel wearing my words like stolen skin.
Nothing I praised actually ever existed.
This is not closure.
This is execution.
I set that chapter on fire
and watch until there is nothing left to recognise.
This is the last time your outline gets my ink,
False Prophet.
Feb 18
Feb 18, 2026 at 4:51 PM UTC
Please love me right
with kindness that doesn’t fade,
with hands that don’t hurt,
with a heart that remembers
I am here,
waiting
to be known
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 3:34 PM UTC
If we meet again
and I think we will
maybe in another lifetime
you won’t remember
what you did to me.
Not the breaking,
not the silence,
not the way I begged with eyes you never understood.
And still,
I’ll try find you.
I’ll walk through the lives I’m given
searching for the shape of your hands,
the way your voice hesitates before lying.
I’ll know it,
even in another language.
Some loves aren’t meant to be safe
just permanent.
Etched into the soul
like a name we forget
but still flinch at when it’s spoken.
But if I catch a glimpse of you
on a crowded street
or in the eyes of a stranger
I’ll stop.
I’ll look.
And I’ll let my heart break
all over again.
Because loving you
was never a choice.
It was a sentence
I accepted
lifetimes ago.
I’ll look for you
Even in places
I know you aren’t.
Because love like this,
doesn't just die
even when we do.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
They don’t hold your heart like I do.
They can’t.
They’re just standing in my grave.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
I kept thinking you’d soften
if I stayed quiet enough,
if I showed you what gentleness and love looked like,
that you might try it on.
But you never changed.
You never even blinked.
And I kept bleeding
thinking it was part of love.
I wanted you to be better.
Not for me-
but for you.
But wanting didn’t make you kind.
It only made me blind.
You didn’t hurt me by accident.
That’s just who you are.
And I’ve spent too long
writing apologies in my own pain
for expecting more.
So I’ll stop pretending
there’s a softer version of you
waiting just around the corner,
just to make things a little easier.
Jun 1, 2025
Jun 1, 2025 at 3:04 PM UTC
I loved a ghost
stitched from soft words
and glances that meant nothing.
I touched a dream
and swore it had a pulse.
And now I grieve
not you-
but the person I thought you were.
Jun 1, 2025
Jun 1, 2025 at 2:47 PM UTC
I used to think bleeding made me worthy.
That if I burned slow enough,
someone might finally call it love….
But it’s not love.
It’s a quiet execution.
I give, and give,
and they call it devotion,
but no one ever asks why I never stop.
I twist myself into prayers,
crawl into their peace like a grave,
and call it my purpose.
But I’m tired of being a vessel for someone else’s softness.
Tired of being holy only when I am hollow.
They sleep soundly while I splinter,
and I tell myself it means I matter.
But I don’t feel holy.
I feel used.
Jun 1, 2025
Jun 1, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
You hurt me with hands that once healed,
and still, I kiss the wounds you leave behind.
You are my poison and my prayer.
A god I can’t stop kneeling for,
even as the altar crumbles under me.
We are saints of suffering,
bound not by grace,
but by the echo of every scream we swallowed,
just to stay.
The silence.
The sweetness that comes too late
and still tastes like heaven.
I know the cage,
and I decorate it in your name.
Call it temple.
Call it home.
You say you love me
in the same breath that cuts me.
And I believe you.
Not because it’s true,
but because it has to be.
Because if it isn’t,
then what am I left with
but ruin?
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 6:32 AM UTC
I want you holy in your ruin,
with the cracks still open,
so I can crawl inside and live there.
Come back crowned in all the pain you’ve earned.
I will not flinch.
I will anoint your scars with my tongue,
light candles in the hollow of your ribs,
and worship whatever’s left of you.
I am not waiting like the patient do.
I am waiting like prophecy,
like flood,
like plague.
I do not wait to love you.
I wait to devour you,
softly,
completely,
as if you were the last god left,
and I the last believer still on my knees.
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 6:23 AM UTC
I would rather die in the ruins
of this obsession
than live without it.
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC