As always, when no one's awake,
my thoughts begin to eat me alive.
When I’m weakest—
when no one's watching—
I finally break down.

My eyes bleed
until sorrow drains from my face,
leaving nothing left to see.

My heart sinks
a little deeper each time
into a dark, hollow space
no one could ever reach.

There, my sorrows feast on me
second by second—
yet somehow, I’m still here.

No liquor strong enough
to keep me from drowning.
I walk into
a never-ending darkness,

awake—
in flesh,
adrift in shadow.

I wish I was the kind of poet
who was deeply in love—
who wrote about love,
about how deep his eyes are,
how he laughs like sunlight,
how he blushes like a soft secret,
how his voice is deep,
yet peaceful,
like rain at night.

I wish I could write
about loving him
like breathing—
something easy, natural, alive.

But here I am.
Writing about pain,
about the ache I carry in silence.
Writing just to be heard—
even once.

I write about trauma,
not tenderness.
About a childhood
where all I remember
is shouting,
closed doors,
and a war
I never asked to fight in.

Death—
the easiest cure to everything.
Every pain.
Every wound.
Every drop of blood
I spilled when I wasn't enough.

Every word that cut,
every memory that stayed,
every moment I begged the world to stop hurting.

It's so easy to die—
all at once.
But most days,
we die slowly,
quietly enough
that no one notices.

We smile.
We laugh.
We disappear,
a little more each time.

And when I finally go,
they’ll burn me beneath wood and smoke,
and forget.
Everything I carried—
gone.
To most,
I was just another sad story.
Just another silence.

But the ones who truly saw me,
they watched it happen—
day after day,
minute by minute.
They saw my eyes go hollow.
They saw joy bleed out of me,
until all I had left
was a heart too tired to beat.

They say poets die young,
but we never got the chance to live.
They shut us up,
tore the pages
before we could even write them.

They said we felt too much.
Too soft.
Too loud.
Too weird.
So they called it weakness,
and they crushed it.

They didn’t wait for time to take us—
they killed us early
with silence,
with laughter,
with rules
we didn’t make.

They say poets die young.
No.
We were killed.

i wish someone's
dark brown eyes
made me write—
each line steeped
in love,
each poem
a quiet devotion,
a place to drown
softly
in their gaze.

i wish
there were arms
to run to
when nothing felt right,
a heartbeat
to rest inside
when the world
grew too loud.

always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.

People say the youngest has it all easy.
They say she's loved more.
They say she gets everything she wants.
They say she doesn’t get hurt.
People say so much about her...

But they never really saw anything.

They didn’t see her cry late at night,
because no one ever hushed her during the day.
She searched for love in every soul she met outside,
because she never felt it within her own home.

She was “just a mistake”—
that’s what they called her.

No one wiped her tears.
No one held her hand.
She had to teach herself how to be strong.
She had to grow up before she was ready.

Her voice was never heard—
just ignored.