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.

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

They don’t hold your heart like I do.
They can’t.
They’re just standing in my grave.

Hold me like a weapon,
bite me like a sin,
and watch me burn—
because I’m yours,
wild and wanting,
and I want it—
every savage, filthy second.

I am still here,
spine bowed like prayer on the floor ,
heart burning like a candle
you forgot to blow out.


Come home,
when your hands remember our softness.
I’ll be waiting—
still yours,
still lit,
still aching.

I kept everything.
Your voice,
your rhythm,
your name on my skin,
the way your love tastes
like a secret no one else deserves.

I don’t need to be near
to be close.
You’re still here-
in my quiet,
in my knowing,
in the version of you
I never will share.

I smile like stained glass-
fractured, lit from behind,
but never whole.

No one hears the weeping
that happens beneath the bone.
It’s quieter that way.

I lick the cruelty off your lips
and say thank you.

I didn’t mean to cut so deep-
but the words came sharp,
and your silence bled.

Now I carry the guilt
like a dagger under the tongue,
metal-tasting,
too holy to throw away,
too cruel to forget.

If I could sew you whole
with my hands,
I would.

Your hands are altars.
Your mouth is war.
I keep your gospel on my tongue
like a rusted nail
swallowed out of devotion.

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.

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?

One more moment in your presence.
That is heaven.
And everything else is exile.

I loved a ghost
stitched from soft words
and glances that meant nothing.
I touched a dream
and swore it had a pulse.
And now I grieve
not you-
but the person I thought you were.

Come back when your soul is whole again,
I’ll be here, a sacred flame unwavering,
waiting to baptize you in my love,
to heal the scars that time could not erase.

In this holy waiting,
my devotion is both prayer and promise -
that you are never lost, only becoming
the saint I have always known you to be.

I reach for you
out of habit,
and touch only the dust
where love used to live.

But the quiet we left behind
stays.
And stays.
And stays.

Heaven isn’t real to me.
Only you.
And if I have to become the heretic,
the martyr,
the lunatic bleeding on the altar of your indifference—
so be it.

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.

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 wasn’t there
when you spilled your pain like holy wine,
offering yourself to silence,
but the silence did not take you.

You did not fall-
not into the dark abyss,
but back into light,
a reluctant resurrection.

If you had died-
because of what I said,
what I didn’t say,
what I became
when you needed softness and I turned to steel-
I swear
I wouldn’t be writing this.
I’d be gone too….

Not out of love.
Out of guilt.
The kind that climbs your spine
like a noose learning your name.

I replay it every second-
your silence,
the hours you vanished into,
the stillness I didn’t recognize
until I imagined you cold.

My hands,
these stupid hands,
could’ve held you.
But they threw the match instead.

I dream of your name
stitched into hospital linen,
and it guts me.
Because if you had slipped away-
for real-
I’d be carving apologies into my skin
just to feel the pain
you almost drowned in.

I’d rather bleed than breathe
if it meant you’d never felt that alone.

But you stayed.
God, you stayed.
And now I’m here
with this monster in my mouth
named regret,
and a thousand I’m sorrys
that don’t resurrect a single thing.

If you ever leave again,
don’t let it be like that.
Don’t let me be the reason
your story almost ended.

How can I ever live with myself?
I can not.

I kept thinking you’d soften
if I stayed quiet enough,
if I showed you what gentleness and love looked like,
that you might try it on.

But you never changed.
You never even blinked.
And I kept bleeding
thinking it was part of love.

I wanted you to be better.
Not for me-
but for you.
But wanting didn’t make you kind.
It only made me blind.

You didn’t hurt me by accident.
That’s just who you are.
And I’ve spent too long
writing apologies in my own pain
for expecting more.

So I’ll stop pretending
there’s a softer version of you
waiting just around the corner,
just to make things a little easier.