What’s this ache that brews in me,
A shadow cast where light should be?
No storm has stirred, no words were said,
Yet something silent bows my head.

I'm wrapped in love, a sacred bliss,
Each glance, each touch, a holy kiss.
I'm held, adored, as though divine—
Still, dread seeps in between the lines.

No cracks have formed within our skies,
No lies, no tears behind the eyes.
So why this pulse, this sinking thread—
This heartbreak haunting me ahead?

Do I paint ghosts where none exist,
Or script a fall in every kiss?
Do I, in peace, begin to roam
To ruins I create from home?

Perhaps I fear the quiet most,
The way it feels like tempting ghosts.
Perhaps it’s me—this war within—
Afraid of love I’m safe in.

They said, out of concern,
“Don’t be too different—
But also be you.”
How do I do both
When they are the same?

To be myself is to be different.
To dim one is to **** the other.
So I stay silent, still—
Caged by the image they built of me.

I want to rise,
Put people in their place,
But I’m scared—
Scared to shatter
Their carefully crafted illusion.

So I freeze.
My inner diva
Glitters behind glass,
While I nod, polite,
And shrink into safety.

Only a few
Get close enough to see my rage—
The irony?
It flares at them the most.
Because I trust them.
Because I can.

I got a good day today—
a jab, they’d say, wrapped in silk and shade.
Too unique, too bold,
both fashionably and workwise—they said.

I simply rolled my eyes,
chin lifted to the sky,
and answered, cool and flat:
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Which really meant,
I don’t give a crap—
not now, not ever,
no space in my mental map.

Still, it might echo an hour later,
not from pain,
but as a compliment wearing satire.
Ask me at dusk if I remember—

Maybe I will,
maybe I won’t.
My subconscious filters waste,
like silk through a comb.

It’s how I am,
how I stay sane,
a mind that lets go,
without needing to explain.

If weeds could thrive—
Grow under duress,
Withstand the stomping,
Cling to minimal breath,
Evade the storm—
Then I want to be one.

No—
I am one.

But the downfall,
It’s a weakness:
Weeds get wiped out faster.
They welcome death
By choking what breathes beside them.
And so do I.
I realize.

I thought my forte was depth—
Roots dug well.
But now it’s dried, cracked,
And starting to burn
Others with it.

When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.

I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.

So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.

It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.

My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.

But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?

My fantasy self once thought

It's easier to be a shifter
You scream mate
like a second nature

Nothing or no one,
Could detach you from them

How do i know to stick my neck out
For one person for all eternity

Reality check was hard
But I needed all of it

Romance was the last hope
I had in some sort of love,hope

It's hard to be bold
Because i want to
Scratch that need to be taken care of

I wonder sometimes

how it's like this
And then like that
In this world

why others eyes are firmly shut
Others wide open

We see things how we want to
Not how they are

Our lenses are so fogged
So senile yet so young

Because our emotions
Are volatile and full of greed

But are those excuses enough
Knowingly or not
we killed someone's will to pull through