I don’t know who hurt you,
but I can see the bruise behind your words.
They pulse like warning lights
and I want to understand,
even if you never let me close.

You speak of venom,
but I wonder
is it pain just trying to escape,
clumsy and loud
like a child crying in a language no one taught them?

Maybe I was softened,
not by privilege,
but by hope
the kind that still believes
people are more than the worst things they've done.

You call me a mask,
a hollow, a ruin
but ruins still hold echoes,
don’t they?
A kind of beauty in what's left standing.

If I’ve hurt you,
know it wasn’t my aim.
I never meant to twist anything.
I just wanted to be seen
the way sunlight sees through leaves
not perfectly, but honestly.

You don’t owe me sympathy,
and I won’t ask for your guilt.
But maybe, just maybe
we’re both stumbling
through different kinds of wreckage,
and neither of us knows how to build
without bleeding.

Who beat you?
Who broke you?
Did they shape you into this ruin of a person?
Were they reckless enough to hand you a voice?
As you dare to stand obstinate to the will of the world,
How did you manage to infect my day with your venom?
Has privilege soften you?
Or did you silently rot from the inside out?

You claim you're shattered,
That you're some relic of trauma
But the way you wield cruelty reveals the lie.
Your pain isn’t penance; it’s projection.
You speak fluent madness.
You manufacture grief
And parade it like some kind of twisted triumph.
You twist the words of the kind
Into scaffolding for your false self
A mask for the void where your soul should be.

Should I feel remorse?
Guilt? Regret?
I’d offer sympathy,
But there’s a chasm between empathy and letting someone
erase me
to validate the wreckage they’ve become.

Life is a cruel, cold,
and broken place
and still,
we are told to find ourselves within it.

But if you are not cruel,
not cold,
not broken
then what are you?

An oddity,
a rare bloom in frozen soil,
a strange and delicate thing
the world forgot how to make.

Not shaped from this earth,
but carved from some softer realm,
where kindness
is not a casualty,
but a calling.

And maybe
what makes you beautiful
is not just what you are,
but how impossible
you seem
in a world like this.

When I lie beside her,
my mind still drifts to you
a whisper in the dark,
a question I can't silence.

Your scent,
a ghost I chase in every room.
Your beauty
etched into me like scripture,
unfading,
unforgiving.

You unlock something in me
my pen bleeds truth
when you haunt my thoughts.
I write bare,
unarmored,
because of you.

No one else
makes me tremble
the way you do.

Sometimes,
the ache of missing you
burns into motion
I dream of my motorcycle
cutting through the salt air,
hugging the cliffs
from LA to Oregon,
just to collapse into the fire
we once called love.

But love like ours
is a wound,
and I wear the pain
like a patchwork of tears and scars,
empty and spent
but never free.

The woman I’ve fought so hard to be.
She looks through me like I’m not there,
Rejecting my truth with a cold, blank stare.

Her love feels distant, sharp as a knife,
Cutting away at my chosen life.
I reach for her, but her arms stay closed,
Her heart a door forever opposed.

Love me as I am—before it’s too late,
Before my voice drowns in the weight of hate.
See me whole, my body, my soul,
But instead, you cast me in a broken role.

A bird whose wings you clipped at the start,
A daughter unloved, breaking apart.
Fading and fractured, yet I still plea:
Mom, why can’t you just love me?

You’re alone in this gamble, a loaded mistake,
Unless their hand trembles for your heart’s sake.
Two barrels aligned, yours at them, theirs at you,
The weight of the risk feels painfully true.

But what if their chamber’s been empty all along?
Their promises hollow, their aim a cruel song?
You fired for forever, they fired for fun,
And now you’re abandoned, your love undone.

Saying “I love you” feels like cocking the hammer,
A gun pressed hard against your fragile amor.
Pull the trigger, and you’re either already dead,
Or walking the earth like a ghost instead.

I’m a liar, a cheat, a thief of truth,
Drowning slow in my wasted youth.
Feed me your pity, a hollow meal,
Fill my cup so I can feel.

Lay me down in my bed of deceit,
Let me burn where shame and sorrow meet.
Let you down, it’s all I do,
Despise me now—I’ve earned it too.

Preach your disappointment, carve it deep,
Discuss the promises I couldn’t keep.
I’m not a martyr, just a hollow plea,
A fraud, a ghost, who claims to be me.