avabpoetry - Hello Poetry

i love it i love it i love it or maybe i just love the way my chest forgets how to behave when you walk into a room like gravity took the day off i say your name like it’s a habit like it’s a song stuck in my teeth like if i don’t keep saying it it might disappear and i don’t want that i don’t want quiet i don’t want calm i want the noise of you the too-much, too-fast, too-bright i love it— the way everything tilts just slightly toward you like the world is agreeing with me i love it i love it i— wait is this love or just the echo of it bouncing around with nowhere to land no, don’t answer i like it better like this unsure and glowing a little out of control i love it i love it i love it even if it breaks later even if it burns through right now it’s loud and it’s alive and it’s mine

0

Apr 22

Apr 22, 2026 at 12:13 PM UTC

I love it

i love it i love it i love it or maybe i just love the way my chest forgets how to behave when you walk into a room like gravity took the day off i say your name like it’s a habit like it’s a song stuck in my teeth like if i don’t keep saying it it might disappear and i don’t want that i don’t want quiet i don’t want calm i want the noise of you the too-much, too-fast, too-bright i love it— the way everything tilts just slightly toward you like the world is agreeing with me i love it i love it i— wait is this love or just the echo of it bouncing around with nowhere to land no, don’t answer i like it better like this unsure and glowing a little out of control i love it i love it i love it even if it breaks later even if it burns through right now it’s loud and it’s alive and it’s mine

37

i told myself i would think this through— lay it out clean, like folded clothes, like reasons that behave but feelings don’t line up like that they spill loud and uninvited, like a glass tipped too close to the edge of a table i swore was steady i knew better— i always know better in the quiet hours when nothing is at stake but in the moment everything softens, logic blurs at the edges like ink in rain and suddenly i am speaking in storms instead of sentences i let a single heartbeat rewrite the plan i spent days building i let a glance, a word, a silence— mean more than it should and now i am standing in the aftermath of something i could have held together if only i had held myself but emotions are clever like that they don’t ask for permission they just arrive and make a home out of whatever certainty you had and i— i keep opening the door

0

Mar 17

Mar 17, 2026 at 10:35 AM UTC

When Feeling Overrides Thought

i told myself i would think this through— lay it out clean, like folded clothes, like reasons that behave but feelings don’t line up like that they spill loud and uninvited, like a glass tipped too close to the edge of a table i swore was steady i knew better— i always know better in the quiet hours when nothing is at stake but in the moment everything softens, logic blurs at the edges like ink in rain and suddenly i am speaking in storms instead of sentences i let a single heartbeat rewrite the plan i spent days building i let a glance, a word, a silence— mean more than it should and now i am standing in the aftermath of something i could have held together if only i had held myself but emotions are clever like that they don’t ask for permission they just arrive and make a home out of whatever certainty you had and i— i keep opening the door

40

If the roles were reversed, maybe you would finally feel how heavy a whisper can be when the world has already decided what you meant to say. Maybe you would learn how silence becomes a shield, how a lowered gaze is not shyness but strategy. You might understand how a compliment can cut, how a doorway can narrow, how laughter behind you can sound like footsteps. If the roles were reversed, perhaps you would see that strength is not always loud, that endurance has a name but rarely a witness. Maybe then you’d know why we walk with keys between our fingers, why we measure our words, why we say “I’m fine” when fire presses against our ribs. If the roles were reversed, maybe you would finally see that all we ever wanted was to move through a world that does not tighten around us— to speak without echo, to breathe without bracing, to be seen without being claimed. And maybe, just maybe, you’d hand the world back gently— realizing you were never meant to hold it this way at all.

0

Mar 6

Mar 6, 2026 at 12:04 PM UTC

But if the roles were reversed

If the roles were reversed, maybe you would finally feel how heavy a whisper can be when the world has already decided what you meant to say. Maybe you would learn how silence becomes a shield, how a lowered gaze is not shyness but strategy. You might understand how a compliment can cut, how a doorway can narrow, how laughter behind you can sound like footsteps. If the roles were reversed, perhaps you would see that strength is not always loud, that endurance has a name but rarely a witness. Maybe then you’d know why we walk with keys between our fingers, why we measure our words, why we say “I’m fine” when fire presses against our ribs. If the roles were reversed, maybe you would finally see that all we ever wanted was to move through a world that does not tighten around us— to speak without echo, to breathe without bracing, to be seen without being claimed. And maybe, just maybe, you’d hand the world back gently— realizing you were never meant to hold it this way at all.

42

the lights went out so quietly i almost thought nothing had changed. but suddenly there was no mirror to argue with, no shadows sharp enough to blame. just dark. and me. at first i reached for other people’s voices like flashlights — tell me who i am, tell me what i look like, tell me if i am enough. but the dark doesn’t answer to anyone. it makes you sit still. it makes you listen to your own breathing like it’s the only proof you exist. i used to think finding myself would feel like fireworks — bright, obvious, loud. instead it feels like learning the room by memory. one careful step. hands stretched forward. bumping into old versions of me i forgot to let go of. the girl who needed approval. the girl who shrank to fit. the girl who said “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. i trace the walls of my own thoughts. i memorize the corners of my fears. in the dark there is no performance. no audience. just the quiet question — if no one is watching, who are you? and slowly, without light without applause without certainty, i begin to answer. not in declarations. not in bold lines. but in small things — the way my heart steadies when i tell the truth. the way my spine straightens when i say no. maybe finding yourself isn’t about turning the lights on. maybe it’s about realizing you were never lost — you just needed the dark to see without distraction the outline of who you’ve been all along.

0

Feb 27

Feb 27, 2026 at 9:26 PM UTC

learning the shape of myself in the dark

the lights went out so quietly i almost thought nothing had changed. but suddenly there was no mirror to argue with, no shadows sharp enough to blame. just dark. and me. at first i reached for other people’s voices like flashlights — tell me who i am, tell me what i look like, tell me if i am enough. but the dark doesn’t answer to anyone. it makes you sit still. it makes you listen to your own breathing like it’s the only proof you exist. i used to think finding myself would feel like fireworks — bright, obvious, loud. instead it feels like learning the room by memory. one careful step. hands stretched forward. bumping into old versions of me i forgot to let go of. the girl who needed approval. the girl who shrank to fit. the girl who said “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. i trace the walls of my own thoughts. i memorize the corners of my fears. in the dark there is no performance. no audience. just the quiet question — if no one is watching, who are you? and slowly, without light without applause without certainty, i begin to answer. not in declarations. not in bold lines. but in small things — the way my heart steadies when i tell the truth. the way my spine straightens when i say no. maybe finding yourself isn’t about turning the lights on. maybe it’s about realizing you were never lost — you just needed the dark to see without distraction the outline of who you’ve been all along.

72

I watched the little typing… bubble like it was a heartbeat. Three dots. Pause. Three dots again. I thought that meant something. I thought it meant me. You said goodnight and I held it close, folded it carefully like a note passed in class. Meanwhile your phone lit up again for someone else. I didn’t know I was sharing you with another screen, another set of inside jokes, another name you smiled at in the dark. You told me you were tired. But you were still awake. Just not with me. And I replay it now — every “I miss you,” every “you’re the only one I talk to like this.” How easy it must’ve been to copy and paste affection. How simple to make me feel singular when I was just one tab open. I was building a future out of notifications. Out of late-night confessions and songs you said reminded you of me. I wonder if they reminded you of her too. The worst part isn’t that you chose someone else. It’s that you let me believe I was chosen. I kept refreshing the chat like if I waited long enough the truth would buffer differently. But it didn’t. It just stayed there — read. delivered. ignored. And somewhere between the silence and the glow of your screen, I realized I was never the only one watching those three little dots and hoping they meant love.

0

Feb 27

Feb 27, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC

Typing...

I watched the little typing… bubble like it was a heartbeat. Three dots. Pause. Three dots again. I thought that meant something. I thought it meant me. You said goodnight and I held it close, folded it carefully like a note passed in class. Meanwhile your phone lit up again for someone else. I didn’t know I was sharing you with another screen, another set of inside jokes, another name you smiled at in the dark. You told me you were tired. But you were still awake. Just not with me. And I replay it now — every “I miss you,” every “you’re the only one I talk to like this.” How easy it must’ve been to copy and paste affection. How simple to make me feel singular when I was just one tab open. I was building a future out of notifications. Out of late-night confessions and songs you said reminded you of me. I wonder if they reminded you of her too. The worst part isn’t that you chose someone else. It’s that you let me believe I was chosen. I kept refreshing the chat like if I waited long enough the truth would buffer differently. But it didn’t. It just stayed there — read. delivered. ignored. And somewhere between the silence and the glow of your screen, I realized I was never the only one watching those three little dots and hoping they meant love.

60

I didn’t think the last practice would feel like this. Like the gym lights were softer somehow, like the echo of the ball against the floor was trying to memorize itself. That sound— sharp, alive, certain— was the soundtrack of my afternoons. The squeak of shoes, the whistle cutting through laughter, someone yelling “mine!” even when it wasn’t. I’m going to miss the sting in my palms after a hard serve, the way my forearms bloomed pink like proof that I was trying. I’ll miss diving for ***** I had no chance of saving, hitting the floor and laughing anyway because someone always reached down to pull me back up. We were never just a lineup on the court. We were inside jokes during water breaks, braided hair and borrowed knee pads, bus rides that smelled like sweat and fries and felt like home. I remember the first game I was terrified— how my hands shook like they didn’t belong to me. And then the first time I scored and everyone screamed my name like it mattered. It did matter. Every serve over the net felt like a small promise: I am here. I can do this. Watch me. And now I’m folding my jersey like it’s something fragile, like it might fall apart if I don’t handle it gently. I didn’t know you could grieve something that didn’t leave you— something you chose to walk away from. The court will still be there. The lines bright and patient. The net pulled tight like it’s still waiting. But I won’t be. And that’s the part that hurts the most. Volleyball was never just a sport. It was my heartbeat in a hollow gym, my voice in a crowded room, my proof that I was stronger than I thought. I’m leaving with sore knees, with calloused hands, with a thousand moments stitched into me. And even when I’m older, when the whistles are distant memories and my jersey is just fabric in a drawer, I’ll still hear it— the echo of the ball, the sound of us cheering, the version of me who learned how to jump without being afraid to fall.

0

Feb 15

Feb 15, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC

After the Final Serve

I didn’t think the last practice would feel like this. Like the gym lights were softer somehow, like the echo of the ball against the floor was trying to memorize itself. That sound— sharp, alive, certain— was the soundtrack of my afternoons. The squeak of shoes, the whistle cutting through laughter, someone yelling “mine!” even when it wasn’t. I’m going to miss the sting in my palms after a hard serve, the way my forearms bloomed pink like proof that I was trying. I’ll miss diving for ***** I had no chance of saving, hitting the floor and laughing anyway because someone always reached down to pull me back up. We were never just a lineup on the court. We were inside jokes during water breaks, braided hair and borrowed knee pads, bus rides that smelled like sweat and fries and felt like home. I remember the first game I was terrified— how my hands shook like they didn’t belong to me. And then the first time I scored and everyone screamed my name like it mattered. It did matter. Every serve over the net felt like a small promise: I am here. I can do this. Watch me. And now I’m folding my jersey like it’s something fragile, like it might fall apart if I don’t handle it gently. I didn’t know you could grieve something that didn’t leave you— something you chose to walk away from. The court will still be there. The lines bright and patient. The net pulled tight like it’s still waiting. But I won’t be. And that’s the part that hurts the most. Volleyball was never just a sport. It was my heartbeat in a hollow gym, my voice in a crowded room, my proof that I was stronger than I thought. I’m leaving with sore knees, with calloused hands, with a thousand moments stitched into me. And even when I’m older, when the whistles are distant memories and my jersey is just fabric in a drawer, I’ll still hear it— the echo of the ball, the sound of us cheering, the version of me who learned how to jump without being afraid to fall.

75

They say it casually, like it’s weather, like bodies are just something you pass through on the way to becoming a man. I wonder when a girl became a placeholder, when her laughter turned into a rumor and her skin into a story told without her name. Maybe it’s easier to touch than to know. To take than to listen. To brag than to admit you don’t know how to be gentle without feeling small. They call it desire, but desire doesn’t need to belittle. Desire doesn’t laugh after the door closes or count worth in inches and silence. I think some boys are taught that power lives in conquest, that respect is weakness, that feelings are a debt they refuse to pay. So they use bodies to avoid hearts, use words like knives and then act surprised when trust bleeds out. But I keep wondering— what would happen if they learned that a girl is not a trophy, not a rumor, not a lesson in control— but a whole person, thinking, choosing, remembering everything they said when they thought she was just a body.

0

Jan 25

Jan 25, 2026 at 9:21 PM UTC

Not a Trophy

They say it casually, like it’s weather, like bodies are just something you pass through on the way to becoming a man. I wonder when a girl became a placeholder, when her laughter turned into a rumor and her skin into a story told without her name. Maybe it’s easier to touch than to know. To take than to listen. To brag than to admit you don’t know how to be gentle without feeling small. They call it desire, but desire doesn’t need to belittle. Desire doesn’t laugh after the door closes or count worth in inches and silence. I think some boys are taught that power lives in conquest, that respect is weakness, that feelings are a debt they refuse to pay. So they use bodies to avoid hearts, use words like knives and then act surprised when trust bleeds out. But I keep wondering— what would happen if they learned that a girl is not a trophy, not a rumor, not a lesson in control— but a whole person, thinking, choosing, remembering everything they said when they thought she was just a body.

42

Tonight, the sky feels heavier, like it knows what day it is. Streetlights flicker in heart-shaped halos, and every window I pass holds a shadow of two. My phone rests in my palm, warm from waiting. No name appears. Just my reflection, small and tired, staring back. I wonder what my laugh would sound like in someone else’s room. I wonder if somewhere, someone is wondering the same thing about me. The air smells like roses I didn’t receive. My hands are empty, but they’re still open. So I sit with the quiet, let it lean against me, let it breathe where another heart might someday be. Because even in this lonely space, I leave a seat beside me— not for sadness, but for the hope that one day, someone will choose to sit down.

0

Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 1:22 PM UTC

A Seat for Someone Who Isn't Here

Tonight, the sky feels heavier, like it knows what day it is. Streetlights flicker in heart-shaped halos, and every window I pass holds a shadow of two. My phone rests in my palm, warm from waiting. No name appears. Just my reflection, small and tired, staring back. I wonder what my laugh would sound like in someone else’s room. I wonder if somewhere, someone is wondering the same thing about me. The air smells like roses I didn’t receive. My hands are empty, but they’re still open. So I sit with the quiet, let it lean against me, let it breathe where another heart might someday be. Because even in this lonely space, I leave a seat beside me— not for sadness, but for the hope that one day, someone will choose to sit down.

31

The world dresses in red today, store windows bloom with paper hearts, and I walk past them like they’re speaking a language I almost remember. My phone is quiet. No good morning, no inside joke, no name lighting up my screen like a small, private sunrise. I used to think love had to arrive as someone else’s hands, someone else’s voice saying I choose you over the noise of the world. But tonight, I light a candle just for the way I made it through another season of almosts and maybes. I sit with my own heartbeat, steady, loyal, still here. And maybe that’s the beginning— not of roses or grand gestures, but of learning how to be someone worth waiting for.

0

Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 1:21 PM UTC

February Without a Name

The world dresses in red today, store windows bloom with paper hearts, and I walk past them like they’re speaking a language I almost remember. My phone is quiet. No good morning, no inside joke, no name lighting up my screen like a small, private sunrise. I used to think love had to arrive as someone else’s hands, someone else’s voice saying I choose you over the noise of the world. But tonight, I light a candle just for the way I made it through another season of almosts and maybes. I sit with my own heartbeat, steady, loyal, still here. And maybe that’s the beginning— not of roses or grand gestures, but of learning how to be someone worth waiting for.

25

We didn’t break, we just slowly loosened, like hands slipping apart in the dark. Your name still lives in my mouth, even when I don’t say it. Some habits don’t know how to leave, they just learn how to stay quiet. We loved in small moments— shared headphones, half-finished sentences, the way your shoulder felt like home on crowded days. I thought love meant holding on, but maybe it also means knowing when to open your hands and let the warmth go. Some nights I still look for you in every passing car, every laugh that sounds like yours, every song that almost says your name. But I’m learning— slowly, gently— that missing you doesn’t mean losing myself. Maybe we were a season, not a forever, and maybe that’s okay. Because spring still comes, even after the coldest goodbye, and I am still here, soft, open, learning how to bloom again.

0

Jan 18

Jan 18, 2026 at 9:55 PM UTC

What We Almost Were

We didn’t break, we just slowly loosened, like hands slipping apart in the dark. Your name still lives in my mouth, even when I don’t say it. Some habits don’t know how to leave, they just learn how to stay quiet. We loved in small moments— shared headphones, half-finished sentences, the way your shoulder felt like home on crowded days. I thought love meant holding on, but maybe it also means knowing when to open your hands and let the warmth go. Some nights I still look for you in every passing car, every laugh that sounds like yours, every song that almost says your name. But I’m learning— slowly, gently— that missing you doesn’t mean losing myself. Maybe we were a season, not a forever, and maybe that’s okay. Because spring still comes, even after the coldest goodbye, and I am still here, soft, open, learning how to bloom again.

33