I crave the meaning of your scars,
the stories stitched beneath your skin.
Not just your favorite color,
but the shadows that keep you awake,
the blue that turns your veins grey.
Tell me of the winters you’ve weathered,
the storms that split you apart.
Show me the edges you’ve dulled with time,
the shards you couldn’t bear to throw away.
Let the world have the surface
I’ll go where your soul stands naked,
and asks nothing of mine
but to stay.
Do your dreams betray you?
Does your silence ache?
What keeps your heart beating
on nights you wish it wouldn’t?
Touch me with your words,
bruise me with your fears.
For if it isn’t soul to soul,
if it isn’t the marrow of who we are,
then it isn’t anything at all

I was born in a city where the air suffocates
The building groans, its bones cracking under the burned of a thousand years of unspoken regret
This city smells like something poisoned,
petrol and sweat soaked into the earth,
the ghost of rain that never touches the ground.
It seeps into my skin,
As an alarm,
I never wanted to belong here.
The city speaks to me in a dialect of dust and noise
I speak its language too
but my words feel like a borrowed coat,
ill-fitting, awkward on my shoulders.
Even when I strive to make them mine,
they slip away,
elusive and alien.
The chai here burns my tongue,
sharp like an old wound that never healed
and I swallow it down,
Even as I smoke, the air smells of snow and distant mountains
I have never gazed upon

I looked at the tombstone, cold and bare,
And all it spoke was love’s despair-
To love, to be loved, to hold for a while,

Behind me, the sky was bare,
A canvas stretched by emptiness
Men and women, faceless,
Feeding hunger that never knew a soul.

The sun bowed down, the hours slipped away,
But the clock kept ticking, as if to say-
That the soul, unmeasured, keeps no time,
Lost in the race,

At the hospital’s quiet edge,
Where life wavered between the inhale and the eternal,
I asked the frail what they carried into the void.
Their lips trembled, but only love spilled forth:
“To be loved, to have loved.

To find,
"Friends to lover" or "lover to friends"
I have set the red traffic light for hours
I have ink up every line on my palm
To find the crossover which could connect us
I made the invisible line called almost lover.

I was Athena once,
With wisdom enough to reshape your soul
But I let my thoughts consume you instead.

My voice,
fierce enough to summon thunder,
whispered as rain when it touched you
My words blended in the chaos of your sins.
I wore my silence like a crown of thorns,
not because I was weak,
but because I chose to bleed in the shadows,
While you walked away.

I could be Ares,
raining fire,
striking down those who dared wrong me.
Yet, for you,
I’ve been Persephone in the underworld,
half-alive, waiting for spring,
tasting death in every breath I held back.
I’ve watched my own hands tremble,
as I let you hurt me,
slowly, deliberately,
while I swallowed the poison you left.

I was known for raising my voice,
like Hera’s rage shaking Olympus,
but now, where are my words?
I can’t see them, can’t summon them.

I’m tired of bleeding myself dry,
tired of watching the wound reopen,
each day a slow death.
I know you’ve walked away,
but this time, I want you back.
Come, untie my stitches with your hands,
and let me die all at once,
by your side, where I belong.

Like Hector, waiting for the final blow,
I won’t run, I won’t hide.
I’m no more a warrior,
just a soul, begging for the end.
Let the fates cut the thread.

You’re not meant for the garden,
where hands pull what they want,
where blooms are here and gone,
just flashes before they fall.

You belong on the mountain,
half-hidden, wrapped in mist,
beyond reach of those
who’d never think to climb.

They might call you dandelion,
like something easy, everywhere—
they want you to bloom right here,
to grow wild, to bend for them.

But you, you are something rare—
rooted deep, untamed,
meant for hands that will climb for you,
that know just what you’re worth.

So hold your place on that hill,
where the ghost orchid blooms alone,
not in the crowded garden’s rows—
but somewhere that’s wholly your own.