I am Grey.
I flow. I mirror.
I protect my truth.
I don’t force softness or sharpness.
I choose based on energy.
I don’t belong in boxes.
I create atmospheres.
If you’re real with me,
I’ll hold your heart like gold.
If you try me,
I’ll give you exactly what you deserve.
I don’t fake smiles.
I don’t owe peace to those who disturb mine.
I am enough, as I am, in any room
I walk into.

I don’t belong—
not here,
not there.
Not by face,
nor by tongue,
not by attitude,
or flair.

Not by the way I think,
not by the way I feel.
I moved too much—
the roots never sank,
just grazed the soil
then peeled.

My home isn’t home,
and where I am
isn’t, either.
So I’ve cut the threads
to here,
to there,
and even
to where I’ll finally rest.

I will not beg for place.
Instead,
I will cradle myself
in silence,
in softness—
and comfort myself
into a  still.

I’ve always despised
people who use others—
then discard.
Well… not in that order.

I hate the ones
who forget the souls
that got stabbed
just to keep them safe.

Imagine
the petrification
when I realized
I was one of them.

Crowned an empress
because my wounds are hidden,
my betrayals quiet,
tucked beneath charm
and soft-spoken storms.

One day,
I’ll choose adventure over steady,
fun over loyalty—
and call it growth,
or freedom,
or whatever sells best.

But the truth?

Karma will come
for the ones who did to me
what I did to them.
And somehow,
that feels
reassuring—
that I tasted
what I inflicted.

That I chose shimmer—
and they get the gem
elsewhere.

Between the ones who drain my light
And those I'd bleed for in the name of right,
I'm tired.
Worn thin from folding my edges
To fit into spaces that don’t hold me.
It’s already a battle—
I'm tired
Wrestling a nature that longs for silence,
For the stillness of being alone.
I bore too easily—
Of things, of places,
And yes, of people too.
So bonding?
It’s like tying air into knots.
I try, it's a price to pay for aiming higher
But it slips.
Some things don't change,
Even when I wish they would.
Even when I pray I could.
And the hardest part—
The most brutal weight—
Is knowing
I never meant to hurt them.
Nor myself

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.