Feet upon the ground.
The air still trembling from what he left behind.
Shame is a distant echo now — a sound lost between old walls.
A sound host, carrying burdens in spite of the desire for a reprieve.
He walks through the threshold where fear once spoke louder than truth.
The skin of the moment stretches thin,
and he passes through it,
weightless.
Alone does not mean abandoned.
It means unshackled,
quietly infinite.
Though screaming for consolation — he also carries it within himself.
Without him, I'd be nothing.
Embrace him, for no one else will.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 4:35 PM UTC
I strip the hours bare,
unclothed of bread, of sweetness,
leaving only the pulse of hunger to keep me company.
The body resists—
it bargains, it pleads—
yet I refuse its theater of need.
What I shed is not only flesh,
but the gravity of years
that pressed me into shapes I did not choose.
Appearance is a fickle mirror,
yet effort—
effort is a blade.
It cuts away the veil,
exposes the raw scaffolding of discipline,
the scaffold on which I rebuild myself.
I do not chase beauty.
I chase silence—
a silence where appetite bends,
where control is sharper than desire.
And when the fast has passed,
I emerge—not lighter only in form,
but steadier in the knowledge
that absence itself
can be a kind of creation.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC
I suppose you lied—
when you swore that words could never wound you.
It is no crime; all souls deceive,
veiling their thresholds,
concealing the hour when endurance unravels,
and silence becomes their only shield.
I have reshaped fragments of myself,
filed edges though the steel endures—
yes, I remain a thorn,
but my counsel turns inward now,
no longer flung outward like brittle seeds,
but sown deep in the soil of my own marrow.
And so the contract splinters—not with fire, but with the quiet severing of a thread,
a fellowship drifting into distance,
a vessel whose torn sails I will never mend.
I am content—resting in the stillness I have chosen.
And you—
are you at peace, or only silent?
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 4:30 AM UTC
It is on my tongue—
a feeling
palatable,
aerodynamic transition,
palpable.
Redesigning for flight,
for movement through resistance,
for letting go of drag.
Whereas my muscles would tense up,
a few inches from the ground—
now I’ve learned that to clip one’s wings
is to stay anchored, be shackled down.
Not that being grounded
isn’t a form of comfort, safety, or security—
but there’s a shift that comes
from renegotiating the terms
you’ve set with your own mind.
It’s a daunting challenge,
yet a necessary one.
Because I want to see the world,
not from behind a pane of glass,
but with wind in my lungs
and wonder in my chest.
And I want to fall in love—
falling into bed with you,
multiple strings attached,
and still feel like the luckiest person alive.
To do that,
I am taking flight
in ways I could not have foreseen
as a child.
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 4:36 AM UTC
The undertow, pulling me down beneath the surface of serenity.
Currents carrying me through quieted screams, muffled by liquid silence, blocking their airways.
Not my pain to feel, but the echoes of others’ wash over me all the same.
I inhabit their waters.
Sinking quietly.
In my chest carrying what they cannot voice.
Yet in that depth, I find a strange kind of strength…
To feel it all, to inhale the weight like water, and still not drown…
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 6:53 PM UTC
I tried to define us with words––what I thought you felt,
what I hoped we were.
But you told me,
more than once.
I just wasn’t ready to hear it.
I clung to the lines I’d written,
while your actions
kept rewriting the truth.
It wasn’t silence that hurt.
It wasn’t the echo of what you said finally sinking in––
It was not realizing sooner…
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 10:40 AM UTC
There is a house with no windows,
built of hours no one counted where the moon keeps its shoes by the door –
always ready, never resting.
Inside, a lantern burns without wick, kept alive by the hands of someone who forgot what their own name feels like when spoken aloud.
They move like wind in a locked room,
making space where none was offered,
balancing skies on their shoulders
like it’s just weather,
not weight.
Their footsteps don’t echo.
They’ve trained even the floorboards not to cry out.
Somewhere, outside the locked hush, another figure stands – also barefoot, also flickering – writing prayers in the form of poems into the dark with nothing but breath and hope
and the ache of recognition.
Not asking to be let in.
Just standing close enough
that the cold doesn’t win.
Because some people don’t knock.
They just stay.
In silence.
Like light does when no one’s watching.
Jul 5, 2025
Jul 5, 2025 at 6:23 PM UTC
If I had a heart.
Untainted.
Not yet blackened by my own sadness, selfishness and self-loathing.
Tattered and worn out.
Tired of beating for others.
It would be yours.
I'd call you in the middle of the night.
And it would be your call.
To decide whether or not I'm worth a shot.
Spoiler alert:
I'm not.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 7:26 PM UTC
Only will I ever be longing.
Watching you from afar.
Instead of being honest.
It's taking me apart.
Only will I ever be longing.
For something that isn't here.
My imagination sometimes brings me to tears.
A child in my hands.
A girl or a boy.
Streaming down my face.
Rivers of joy.
Out of breath I realize; screaming at the wall.
Only will I ever be longing.
For I cannot see past my flaws.
And therefore I will never reach the stars.
In turn I'll never escape the dark.
And I will never hold your heart in the palm of my hand.
Time is running out.
Like quicksand.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 7:11 PM UTC
At the cusp of something.
Perfect silence.
Almost like I'm six feet under.
More like six hundred miles away from you.
Will she ever know of me?
Against all odds, not likely.
I fold myself as if to be-
Stillborn upon delivery.
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 7:00 PM UTC