You were the first thing I ever captured beautifully.
Every line bent toward you like prayer,
like blood pouring in the shape of your name.
You lit something in me,
not hope, not love,
something older. Hungrier.
I called it inspiration.
But it was worship.

I gave you pages,
painted you in metaphors
that made you more than human,
more than you ever earned.

And then you broke me.

Now I live in the wreckage.
Every page is stained with grief.
No glow.
Just ruin.

I can’t stop creating.
Even now, even bleeding.

These are portraits smeared in ash.
They are prayers for the version of you,
that never even existed.

Now I can’t even create anything,
That doesn’t feel like mourning.

I don’t know how to exist
unless I’m unraveling for someone else.
My worth hangs in your comfort
quiet, cruel, conditional.

I make myself small in a sacred way
bite the tongue,
bleed behind the curtain,
so no one sees the cost of your peace,
or your character.

I’m not a person in this.
I’m the silence that makes your voice sound softer.
I’m the bruise you cover
so you can look whole.

I used to think bleeding made me worthy.
That if I burned slow enough,
someone might finally call it love….
But it’s not love.

It’s a quiet execution.

I give, and give,
and they call it devotion,
but no one ever asks why I never stop.

I twist myself into prayers,
crawl into their peace like a grave,
and call it my purpose.
But I’m tired of being a vessel for someone else’s softness.
Tired of being holy only when I am hollow.

They sleep soundly while I splinter,
and I tell myself it means I matter.
But I don’t feel holy.
I feel used.

Your words were small,
but they split me open-
quiet knives
dressed as truth.

I carried your words
like glass under skin-
invisible,
but cutting every time I moved.

Every syllable,
a small death I swallowed
just to stay close.

I bled in silence
so you wouldn’t hear
what you’d done.

I’ve never healed right
from the sound
of your voice
telling me
I wasn’t enough.

You hurt me with hands that once healed,
and still, I kiss the wounds you leave behind.

You are my poison and my prayer.
A god I can’t stop kneeling for,
even as the altar crumbles under me.

We are saints of suffering,
bound not by grace,
but by the echo of every scream we swallowed,
just to stay.


The silence.
The sweetness that comes too late
and still tastes like heaven.
I know the cage,
and I decorate it in your name.
Call it temple.
Call it home.

You say you love me
in the same breath that cuts me.
And I believe you.
Not because it’s true,
but because it has to be.
Because if it isn’t,
then what am I left with
but ruin?

I want you holy in your ruin,
with the cracks still open,
so I can crawl inside and live there.

Come back crowned in all the pain you’ve earned.
I will not flinch.
I will anoint your scars with my tongue,
light candles in the hollow of your ribs,
and worship whatever’s left of you.

I am not waiting like the patient do.
I am waiting like prophecy,
like flood,
like plague.
I do not wait to love you.
I wait to devour you,
softly,
completely,
as if you were the last god left,
and I the last believer still on my knees.

I would rather die in the ruins
of this obsession
than live without it.