In shadows deep where silence grows
A heart once bright now only knows  
The weight of love that slipped away  
In quiet nights  I long and sway.  
Each memory like a whispered sigh
Reminds me of the days gone by
When laughter danced in morning light  
Now echoes fade lost to the night.  
I search for warmth in empty spaces  
But find instead the cold embraces
Of loneliness my only friend  
A bitter truth that won’t soon end.  
The ache of love is sharp and clear
It cuts so deep it brings the tears  
I'm longing for a hand to hold
In dreams of warmth my heart feels cold.
  Yet still I hope though shadows loom  
That one day light will chase the gloom
For in this heart a spark remains
A wish for love to heal these pains.

I stopped naming days a while ago
they blur like raindrops on a cracked lens.
Everything feels like an echo
of a moment that never begins.

I’m not living — I’m leftover.
A half-thought someone left behind.
Just a whisper under locked doors,
a glitch they pretend not to find.

My mirror forgets my face now.
It fogs up, refuses to see.
I trace a smile in the steam,
then wipe it off carefully.

My body’s a punishment I wake up in,
every curve a curse, every breath a dare.
They say “You’ll grow into yourself,”
but I’m scared of what’s even there.

My bedroom light flickers like it pities me.
I don’t turn it off—it feels like a friend.
Sometimes I stare at the ceiling
and wonder when all this will end.

School is a stage I perform at.
My backpack holds more secrets than books.
Teachers read me like I’m blank paper,
like I’m nothing more than looks.

I speak less every week.
Even the silence feels bored of me.
I try to write myself into poems,
but the paper just stares blankly.

I write suicide notes in my head
like lullabies when I can’t sleep.
I imagine a world without me
and it doesn’t even weep.  

No one knocks on my door anymore.
They say I’m “just going through a phase.”
But I’m not going anywhere
just sinking in quieter ways.

I think the stars forgot my name.
I don’t even wish on them now.
What’s the point in asking for light
when you’ve never been shown how?

I keep my razor in a pencil case.
It makes more sense that way.
At least it writes something real
when my words won’t stay.

Tell me—what’s worse:
To scream and be silenced,
or to whisper your last goodbye
and still be unseen in the silence?

I don’t want a grave or flowers.
Just maybe a song without my name.
Let me go like a breath you didn’t mean
quick, quiet, forgotten.
No blame.