Let me grow my hair,
so you won’t trace the ***** of my collarbone
like it was shaped for your gaze.
Let me drown my arms in fabric,
so a stranger’s fingers won’t twitch with hunger,
so no one will say I was asking for it.

It’s just a hand,
just a hand-
but I didn’t know a piece of me
could call out in silence,
could summon wanting
I never invited in.

Let me disappear under long sleeves,
let me vanish in loose folds,
so you won’t see the curve of my waist
and blame me for your craving.
Let me hide every inch of skin,
as if my body were a lock
and your desire the only key.

I have done everything.
Now tell me-what more should I give?
Should I carve away the flesh,
peel myself down to bone,
so you will finally see
what keeps me awake at night?

Should I hold out my wrists,
let you read the stories
written in fine white lines?
Should I turn my face,
so you can study the hollows,
the weight beneath my eyes,
the proof of all the nights
I have battled myself?

I want you to see-
to see beyond the skin,
beyond the body,
beyond the hourglass frame
that cages me inside your fantasies.

I want you to know
that I am more.
I am the ache in my own chest,
the breath I hold between words,
the voice that breaks but still speaks.

Don’t just crave my skin.
See me.

I bled while you stood by my side,
ready to spill every drop until I faded away.
You walked away as my blood turned to gray,
and I stitched myself with fragile threads.
I crave the pain of bleeding with you here,
not held back by this delicate fabric.
These threads may keep me from falling apart,
but they trap me in a never-ending cycle
I just want to unravel it all
I want to bleed

In the compile of words
We have lost our favourite poems
It's hard to remember
Probably we have forgotten
You might find the same poem
After a decade
In the dust of old papers
I know you'll remove all the dust
To read your favourite poem one more time
If you read it carefully you haven't forgotten your poem
It got lost in the compile of new pages.
What if we get the chance to read again

15 seconds of reels,
A huge burst of dopamine,
Chasing the same fleeting high,
Riding the endless wave of ups and downs.

2:00 a.m. at the bar,
Shouting into the night,
Lost in conversations with strangers,
While feeling disconnected from those close to us.

We drift through shadowed rooms,
Resting in separate corners,
Searching for a place that feels like home,
Wandering from one room to the next,
Where's home?

Home is monotonous,
We don't chase the comfort of home,
We linger, waiting for something more.

We fill our days with distractions,
Filling voids with temporary thrills,
In a constant quest for meaning.

As the night stretches on,
We wonder if the chase is worth the cost,
Screaming for genuine connection,
Beyond the transient highs and lows.

In the end, we seek a home not just in walls,
But in the quiet understanding,
The kind of peace that isn't found in the buzz.

Home is boring
We don't chase home
We stay there

If i get the chance again,
I'd ghost the whole world to admire your eyes.
I'd fight against Poseidon to stop the wave that separated us.
I'd climb Mount Olympus to reach your heart,
Like Hermes, I'd be swift and smart.
I'd call upon Apollo to light our way.
I'd soar like Icarus, reaching new heights,
With the love of Aphrodite.
I'd make all the Greek gods envy us

I had a white house,
perched near the coffee shop,
where the bees moved so gently
that even time forgot them.
I’d sit by the window,
counting the hours until my children’s laughter
spilled into the walls,
their footsteps filling the hollows of my day.
But then the alarm rings-5 a.m. sharp-
pulling me back to the hum of a life
I do not belong to.

The city rises around me,
a sea of faces I no longer recognize.
I search for eyes
that see beyond the shape of me,
past the weight I carry in silence.

I come home to this house,
perfect in the way magazines promise life should be,
the kind people long for,
and yet it feels foreign,
like I am trespassing in my own dream.

Why is it that I still search for home
in the breath of someone who doesn’t exist

Flor de Muerto, I wanted to fade into the soil,
where I could touch the roots of Azucena,
before I bury myself six feet deep,
hoping to inhale the fragrance of her grace.

Even if I bury myself to the grave,
Azucena would bloom through my ribs.

I don’t want Flor de Muerto to take root in my heart,
I long to pray, to kneel
but the world has made me a god,
one I never asked to be.

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

Forgive yourself
like the ocean forgives itself
for the wreckage it leaves
after a storm.

It crashes, it swallows,
it pulls away
and then it rests,
silent and still.

The tornado does not regret
its violence against the birds,
it only moves
until the wind calms.

Sometimes we destroy what we love,
tear apart the world
with words and silence
but we also heal with the same hands.

You are the storm
and you are the calm
you are the force
that pulls and the one that lets go.

Forgive yourself
for the hurt you’ve caused
and for the parts of you
that have been broken.

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.

Are you the tree in the graveyard,
or the fallen star I search for in the sky?
You said the sky was the limit
can you see me now, soaring beyond your reach?

I search for you in the faces of ghosts
I once feared to face.
Do you follow me,
as I follow the trace of your steps?

Do you see me in the sun,
its light burned into my eyes
eyes that are yours,
but carry a void you left?

Is it you in the fog,
holding me close when I can't breathe?
Am I drowning in it,
or is it your arms that won’t let go?

Do you hear my cry,
echoing in the thunder’s roar
a sound that's very similar to yours
now swallowed by the storm?

He said it was your fault
the way you smiled too often at strangers,
the way your dress clung to your skin,
the way you spoke your mind
like it wasn’t meant to be silenced.


He said you were too much,
too loud, too free,
too wild to be loved by someone like him.
So he let his hands wander elsewhere
and called it your mistake.


He blamed you for the nights he disappeared,
for the silence he left in his wake,
for the guilt that crept into his voice
when you asked where he’d been.
He told you it was your laugh
too careless, too inviting,
like you wanted to be replaced.



But it wasn’t you
who forgot what love was made of.
It wasn’t you
who kissed someone else
and washed the taste down with excuses.



He blamed you because it was easier
than admitting he was small.
He blamed you because your strength
was the mirror to his weakness.



It wasn’t the dress,
it wasn’t the smile,
it wasn’t your beauty that broke him.
It was him
his hollow heart, his cowardice,
his inability to hold something real.


And you still sit in the ruins,
asking yourself what you could’ve done.
But the answer was never yours to give.
He was broken before he touched you,
and nothing you did could’ve changed that.


So let him carry the weight of his lies,
let him drown in the shame he tried to hand you.
You are not the cracks in his ******>ry.
You are the foundation he never deserved.

I know you think you’re only beautiful in the dark,
like the moon, meant to be adored from afar, in shadows.
And maybe the stars whisper this to you,
but stars are only brave when no one’s watching
they fade as soon as the world fills with light.
Why take advice from something that hides with the dawn?

Your light comes from the sun, not from borrowed reflections.
You’re meant to stand in full view, to claim your space in the day.
Only the sun is your equal.
So why listen to stars that doubt their own strength?
Why let them convince you
that your worth is only real in the quiet of night

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 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.

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.

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.