You say I accuse you too often,
but you don’t know the nights
I’ve spent unraveling myself,
searching for the fault you saw in me.
You don’t know the weight of wondering—
why wasn’t I enough?
Why did my “no”
feel so heavy in my mouth,
yet so faint in your ears?
Why did I apologize for holding boundaries
I was never meant to break?


You asked—softly at first,
then sharper, more insistent.
A kiss, a touch, a little more.
Each time, my “no” cracked,
fractured under the pressure of your need.
But still, I said it,
though every refusal carried an apology
I didn’t owe.


I folded myself smaller,
shrinking beneath your disappointment.
Until one day,
I stopped saying no.
Not because I wanted to,
but because it was easier
than feeling the weight of your questions,
easier than holding the shame
of not being what you wanted.


And then,
there was the forest.
That place I can’t forget,
no matter how much distance I put between us.
It lingers in me—
a scar I keep running my fingers over,
a moment I still carry
like a wound that refuses to close.
Even then, I forgave you.
Not because I had healed,
but because you asked,
because it was easier
to give you what you wanted
than to carry the weight of my own pain.


But now,
when I speak my truth,
when I let the words escape
to lighten this burden I’ve carried for so long,
you call me unfair.
You twist my voice into something cruel,
as though I am the one
wielding the knife.


I bent myself to fit your needs,
broke myself to keep you whole.
I gave and gave,
until there was nothing left of me
but a hollow shadow,
an echo of who I used to be.


Now that I’ve found my voice again,
now that I’ve gathered the courage
to say what your silence did to me,
you hold blame to my chest
like a weight I am still expected to carry.


Maybe my words do cut—
maybe my truth has sharp edges.
But it is mine,
the only thing I have left
after giving so much of myself
to keep you from breaking.


These words are not vengeance.
They are reclamation.
They are the voice I buried for you,
the pieces I shattered
to make room for your comfort.


And now, for the first time,
I am choosing
to put myself back together.
Even if it means
you no longer recognize
the person I’ve become.

How many times have you stood before the mirror,
lost in the weight of your own reflection?
Searching for flaws in a face
that was never meant to be perfect,
peeling apart pieces of yourself
as though perfection could make you whole.


Your nose—too bold, too sharp,
a defiance carved into your skin.
Your stomach—too soft, too human,
a place where life gathers
but shame has settled.
Your skin—etched with the passage of time.
Your lips—too quiet to scream,
too tired to smile.


And so you trace these features,
as though rearranging them
could finally make the mirror kind.
You reshape, you erase,
you starve yourself into silence,
bending to the world’s demands—
a world that has never deserved
the beauty you already carry.


But the mirror,
the mirror has always lied.
True beauty is not found in its shallow gaze.
It does not live in the absence of flaws,
but in the depth of your story.
It is written in the scars
you try to hide,
in the strength of your tender heart,
in the quiet fire that still burns
behind your tired eyes.


It is in the way your body carries
the weight of all you’ve survived,
a testament to the storms
that could not break you.
Can you not see it?


This body, this home,
has endured the chaos of life,
stood steady through trembling hands,
and held you upright
when the world tried to pull you down.


Your hands—
they have wiped away tears,
offered warmth,
built and rebuilt the pieces of others.
Your heart—
it has bled,
but it has also loved
with a ferocity that leaves echoes
long after you are gone.
Your eyes—
they have seen both stars and shadows,
and still, they shine.


This is beauty:
not the image the mirror reflects,
but the life it cannot show.
It is the way you bring light to others,
even when you feel like fading.
It is the way you carry kindness
through the weight of your pain,
the way your presence
softens the edges of the world.


Why let the mirror tell your story
when it only sees the surface?


True beauty has always lived deeper—
in the cracks where light spills through,
in the tenderness of your imperfections,
in the resilience you never thought you had.
Your body is not a prison;
it is a sanctuary.
It is a canvas painted
with memories of growth and survival,
a map of all you’ve endured,
a masterpiece shaped by time and love.


Let go of the mirror’s whispers.
Look beyond its glass walls,
to the vastness of who you are.


You are not what you see—
you are the laughter that fights the silence,
the tears that soften your soul,
the love that radiates outward
without asking for return.


True beauty is not in fitting into a frame,
but in breaking free from it.
It is in the way you hold the darkness,
turn it to light,
and give it to others—
with a smile that mends the broken,
a voice that soothes the wounded,
a touch that heals what feels lost.


And if you look further,
past the horizon of your reflection,
you will see—
you have never been alone.
We are all made of the same stardust,
bound by the same threads of longing and hope,
etched with the same stories
of pain and triumph.


You are beautiful—
not because you are perfect,
but because you are real.
Because you love,
because you endure,
because you exist in a world
that has tried to make you disappear.


You are beautiful—
not in spite of your flaws,
but because of them.
You are whole,
even in the moments you feel broken.
You are enough,
even when you cannot believe it.

I despise the face that greets me,
a hollow echo of who I should be.
Eyes like storm-worn glass,
carrying the weight of too many stares,
yet unseen by all.
The smile—fragile, trembling—
fractures under its own weight,
crumbling into silence.


I do not laugh anymore—
not for you,
not for them,
not even for myself.
The mirror holds my shame,
reflecting a stranger
I am too afraid to face.


I hide behind walls,
away from prying eyes,
because this version of me
should never be seen.


Makeup can’t mask the cracks beneath,
the jagged edges that bleed through.
Don’t ask for pictures;
you wouldn’t want to see them.
Even I can’t bear to look
without breaking.
And these arms—
they wear stories carved in shadow,
etched into skin
like silent screams.
My hands have never known
the warmth of being held.
My shoulders,
always drawn tight,
carry the weight of fear—
fear of touch,
fear of knowing,
fear of being known.


Don’t look at me.
These eyes hold no stars,
only the dark void where light once lived.
My lips form no words,
only screams I’ve swallowed
to keep the world from breaking with me.


The mirror doesn’t lie.
It shows a ruin,
a failure.
And I?
I turn away,
tears blurring the lines of my reflection,
wishing I could wear another life,
another face,
just for a moment.


I know I am not what you hoped for.
So leave.
Run from the monster I see in my reflection.
Find someone untouched by shadows,
someone whole,
someone worthy.


I am not the dream you deserve.
You will shatter
if you try to hold me.
So go—
before my edges cut into your hands.


I was never enough—
not for you,
not for anyone,
not even for myself.
I can’t heal you.
I can’t heal me.
I can’t be the light
when my own flame has burned to ash.


I give all I have,
and still, it is never enough.
And yet, somewhere in the quiet,
a whisper stirs:
what if someone, someday,
could see past the fractures?
What if someone could love the chaos,
the scars,
the raw, unpolished edges of me?
What if someone could find beauty
where I see only ruin?


Just once,
I want to see myself through their eyes—
to meet the version of me
they believe exists.
To hear a voice, soft and certain,
say, “You are enough.
You are worthy.”
To watch the cracks fade into gold,
the shadows soften into light,
until the stranger in the mirror
becomes someone
I finally recognize.

It’s not the distance that cuts the deepest—
it’s the silence.
The way your presence lingers,
but no longer fills the room.


You slip through my hands
like a tide pulling back,
leaving behind fragments
of a love we once called unbreakable.


Once, I was your everything.
I could see it in the way your gaze found me,
in the way your words held my fears.
But now your eyes drift past mine,
your words land hollow,
like whispers from a stranger.


When did we stop understanding the silence?
When did the space between us grow so wide?
Our conversations are cold now,
the warmth lost
like the final embers of a forgotten fire.


No “I miss you,”
no “How’s your heart today?”
Not even a whisper to say,
“I’m still here.”
Do you notice the quiet?
Do you feel the shift?
Because I do.
Every second, I feel it.
We were once a symphony,
every note in perfect harmony.
Now, we are static,
a broken melody
with no bridge to carry us back.


Did I hold too tightly?
Or not tightly enough?
Am I the one who slipped,
or did you let go first?
Am I not enough for you now?
Did I lose the part of me
you used to love?
Have the words run dry,
or do we no longer believe
in the power they once held?


You feel like a shadow now—
near enough to touch,
but cold and weightless.
And still, being near you
feels like coming home.
Not the home we built together,
but the ruins,
a memory of walls that once stood strong.


This distance—
it terrifies me.
You were my anchor,
my constant.
Now I am untethered,
drifting in an ocean of what-ifs,
aching for the shore I can no longer see.
Somewhere along the way,
we unraveled.
Not in a single moment,
but in the quiet, unnoticed spaces
we thought wouldn’t matter.


And now, all I can ask is:
did you feel it too?
At night, the panic swells,
the thought of losing you
an unbearable weight on my chest.
Am I holding on too tightly?
Or have you already let go?


I still want to be her—
the girl you once saw,
the one who made you believe.
But I feel her slipping away,
just as I feel myself fading from your eyes.

You’ve done nothing wrong.
It’s okay if you need to leave.
I can’t ask you to stay.
But God, the pain—
the pain of letting you go,
the ache of still hoping
you’ll turn back,
that we’ll find our way back to us,
back to what we were,
even when I know
you’re already gone.

“I could have anyone,”
they say it with a smile,
as though I am something to be won,
as though my worth is measured
by the hands that reach for me
and the voices that whisper lies.

“The boys must line up for you,”
my grandmother said it once,
her words innocent, hopeful,
not knowing how hollow they would become.
And yes, they line up –
but not for me, not really.
They come for the body,
for the curve of my waist,
for the lips that smile but don’t speak.
They come for a flame
they never intend to keep alight.

They take.
Their hands find warmth
while my soul freezes,
the emptiness seeping into my bones.
They burn with borrowed fire,
but I am left cold.
Every touch is a theft,
every kiss a reminder
that I am more –
and yet, somehow, I am not enough.

I let it happen.
How could I not?
I grew up in rooms where love was silent,
where warmth was a stranger
and hearts learned to beat quietly.
So I became a performer,
a silhouette in their fantasies:
a neckline just low enough,
a voice soft enough to please,
a presence fleeting enough
to never be a burden.

I can have anyone tonight.
Someone to hold me,
to whisper sweetness in my ear,
to promise nothing and take everything.
Someone who sees only skin,
who thinks the glow of my body
means there’s no darkness within.
But when the night ends –
what remains of me?

The sheets grow cold.
The mirror reflects someone I don’t know,
someone whose worth lives only
in borrowed moments,
whose beauty is a currency
for those who will never stay.
They touch me like fire,
but no one dares to step into the flames.

I am enough to want,
but not enough to choose.
I am the pause in their chaos,
the silence they fill with their hands.
I am seen,
but never truly known.
I am held,
but never kept.

And it breaks me –
the weight of their leaving,
the knowing that my soul is too vast
for their shallow hearts.
I want more.
I ache for more.
For someone who doesn’t line up,
who doesn’t take
and vanish into the dawn.

But here’s the truth –
I can have anyone I want,
except someone who stays.
I can light a fire in their veins,
but they won’t see
the embers burning in mine.

I am not just a body.
I am not just a moment.
But to them, I am only that:
a breath, a flame, a flicker –
gone.

And when the night ends,
I remain.
Cold.
Alone.
And aching to be seen –
not for what they take,
but for what I am.

More than a moment.
More than their eyes will ever see.
More than they will ever hold.

We kissed.
Finally.
It was beautiful.
Or maybe I needed it to be.

He was beautiful.
The kiss, the moment—
all shimmering illusions,
glittering like broken glass in the dark.
But what made it truly intoxicating
was the haze we let consume us.
We were so full. So empty.

Full of poison—
a quiet fire that softened the edges
of truths too sharp to face.
It dulled our fears,
convinced us that what we felt
was something real,
something tangible,
something we could hold onto.

But was it real?
Did I kiss him,
or did I kiss the lie we shared?
The lie that let us drown
in a closeness that wasn’t really there.
We didn’t see each other.
Not truly.
We stared through the haze,
two lost souls brushing fingertips
but never daring to grasp.

And when the haze faded,
when the silence settled like dust in the room,
the glances spoke—
soft, trembling, unsure.
Eyes that lingered just long enough
to ask a question,
but not brave enough
to search for the answer.

The air grew colder.
The warmth of his hands—
a memory already smoldering,
ash falling between us.

I saw him.
A man drowning in himself,
a heart hidden behind walls too high to climb.
And me?
I am no better.
I hide, too—
my fear tucked between words unspoken,
a dam holding back a river of feelings
I am too afraid to release.

We don’t know who we are.
We don’t know what we want.
But we feel it.
It hums beneath our silence,
an ache we cannot name.
A closeness we taste
but refuse to swallow,
a truth we bury
because we fear what it might mean.

Maybe you are my poison.
Maybe I am yours.
We drink each other slowly,
a bitter medicine for wounds
we don’t know how to heal.
It’s easier this way.
Easier to let the haze lie for us.
Easier to let a kiss pretend
it’s enough.

And when the night ends—
when the haze is gone
and the morning cuts through the dark—
what’s left?

We kissed.
It was beautiful.
But beauty fades.
And when I look at you,
I wonder:

What could we have been,
if we weren’t so afraid to feel?

Maybe this chapter—
this life, this ache—
isn’t about love.
At least not the kind I dream of
when the nights stretch on too long.
Perhaps it’s about seeing love everywhere,
in the way the sky blushes at dawn,
in the quiet hum of a lonely room,
in the broken places of my own reflection.

Self-love.
That’s what they call it.
A soft, gentle promise—
“You can be enough for yourself.”
It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?
Like a song you want to believe in.
And yes, there’s freedom in being alone.
I can breathe.
I can wander.
I can build a life that asks for no one.

But when I’m honest—
beneath all that strength,
beneath the facades I wear like armor,
I am hollow.
I am aching.
I long for love.

Maybe it’s because I never had a home.
No warm hands to hold me steady,
no soft voices to call me safe.
Or maybe because my home died
when I was fourteen—
when the only person who ever loved me
left me with silence.
And I learned, far too young,
that grief wears many faces.
Sometimes, it’s an empty chair at the dinner table.
Sometimes, it’s a house that echoes
with everything unsaid.

I grew up without a map,
without someone to show me
what love feels like.
How to give it. How to receive it.
And so, I searched for it in empty places—
in hands that took pieces of me
but never stayed.
In words that felt warm for a moment
but turned cold by morning.

Love is a mystery.
A lighthouse glowing in the fog,
always visible, always distant,
calling me toward something
I can never quite touch.
They talk about love
like it’s simple, like it’s everywhere,
but why does it feel
like it was never meant for me?

If my father,
or anyone from the ruins of my family,
could not love me—
who could?

Being alone is safer.
Easier.
Here, no one leaves.
Here, no one promises
what they cannot give.
But no matter how much I build,
no matter how much I hold myself together,
there’s a space inside me
where the ache lives.
And I long for love.

So much so,
I would give everything I am to have it.
Can you love me as much as I hate myself?
Can you fill the void with something real?
Steady hands, steady words,
to calm the storms that live in me.
Can you love me in a way
that makes the silence feel less heavy,
that makes the mirror show something
other than cracks and shadows?

Please.
Please, love me.
Because I cannot.
I’ve tried.
God knows, I’ve tried.
But every time I reach for the person I see—
she slips through my fingers.
She feels small, unworthy,
a puzzle with missing pieces
no one wants to find.

Love me,
because maybe, if you do—
if someone sees me,
truly sees me—
I’ll believe I’m not broken.
Maybe one day,
I won’t need to beg.
Maybe one day,
I’ll stand alone,
look in the mirror,
and whisper,
“I am enough.”