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I am the girl in the spotlight—
but only I know it shines.
No one else sees the light,
not yet.

I am the girl who smiles when they smile,
while hollow echoes live inside me.
When I see my desires
in someone else’s hands,
I whisper, “It’s okay.
Maybe later. Maybe mine will be greater.”
So I wait,
patient, faithful, hopeful,
watching others live
the life I bled for,
while I stand—
empty-handed.

I am the girl who grew up too soon,
never a child,
always an old soul,
forced into adulthood before I could play.
Now I age,
yet the child inside me
still weeps for the childhood
she begged for,
but never knew.

I am the girl who is left alone,
the glue that holds everyone together—
until I am the one left broken apart.
Love cost me love.
I long for it,
having never tasted it.
I know pain,
I know depth,
but only from afar.

I am the girl with a smile stitched on,
everyone’s comfort,
everyone’s healer.
But my own birthday?
Forgotten.
No candle lit,
no song sung.
I sit in silence,
watching others glow
in celebrations I was never given.

I am the girl who questions:
why do my dreams die in my hands,
only to bloom in the palms of those
who never even dreamed them?

I am the girl—hurt, broken,
yet unshaken.
Always the hand that reaches out,
always the hand left hanging.

I forgive,
because I don’t want to wait for heaven.
But forgiveness
has carved me a private hell.

Don’t mistake me
for the soft, ever-giving girl.
I am sharp.
I am “batameez.”
I am simple,
yet too complex to hold.
I am soft,
yet hard as stone.
I am broken,
I am numb.

I am perceived happy—
but I don’t even feel it.
Lyra Callen Aug 19
clouds unhook their secret, and the sky begins to cry,
soft bruises of light falling slow—somewhere between hurt and lullaby.
inside, the room breathes with the rhythm; a small drum that knows my name,
and for a moment the ache feels like a language I can finally say.

water writes down everything I try to hide—words melting into streams,
my grief becomes a river and my laughter slips in like bright, quick dreams.
the rain wakes the quiet parts of me, the wild that remembers how to be,
pulling the skin of the world taut until the honest things show free.

puddles hold tiny maps of yesterday—shivering mirrors of streetlamps, faces, time,
and when I jump, the splash is a small rejoicing, a punctuation to the sky’s rhyme.
playing barefoot, I feel alive in the reckless, childish way of someone saved,
water on my tongue, a sudden laugh—these are the small rebellions I have craved.

there is comfort in the wet—like being wrapped in something that understands,
that knows sorrow wears the same coat as joy and folds them both into its hands.
the rain is patient, it repeats what the heart forgets: breathe, let go, return,
and leaves behind a silver hush where old, soft memories quietly burn.

each drop is a letter from the clouds, edged with salt and honest light,
it reads the hidden weather of the soul and gives permission to feel tonight.
nature leans close and says: this is your skin, your truth, your unafraid,
and the smell of wet soil stitches me back to the world I sometimes trade.

so I stand at the window, trembling between grief and a small, fierce grace,
watching rain turn every cracked place into a luminous, forgiving space.
it hurts and it heals in the same slow, steady fall—tears that make me whole,
and when the sky finally quiets, I carry the damp memory like a warm, lasting coal.
Lyra Callen Aug 19
A paper once empty, quiet, still,
now breathes with words, with heart, with will.

Ink spills a story, soft and true,
a piece of soul it carries through.

Across the distance, far and wide,
it brings a presence to your side.

The folds, the scent, the weight it bears,
are more than signs—it's love that cares.

What greater treasure could there be,
than words that hold eternity?

Oh handwritten letter, rare, profound,
a silent voice that still resounds.
Lyra Callen Aug 19
It was once an empty sheet,
silent, weightless, plain.
But ink kissed its surface,
and suddenly, it breathed
a fragment of you,
sent across miles.

The paper is no longer paper.
It is your voice,
folded between the lines.
It is your hand,
pressed into every curve of ink,
as though you were sitting beside it,
beside me.

How strange,
that distance loses its teeth
when I hold this fragile thing.
It feels as though my heart
travels back to you,
through the path your words carved,
through the scent still resting
on the page.

This letter is not mere stationery
it is proof.
Proof that love survives oceans,
that time cannot dull longing,
that something as small as ink and paper
can outweigh the heaviest miles.

What gift could be more precious
than this?
A piece of your soul,
placed gently in my hands.
It tells me stories,
it holds me close.
It will stay with me
as priceless as the heartbeat
that wrote it.
Lyra Callen Aug 18
They build their thrones on shifting sand,
with gilded smiles, with trembling hand.
They preach of virtue, sell their lies,
then trade their honor for disguise.

A marketplace of borrowed trust,
where love turns quickly into dust.
Where promises are made for show,
and roots are shallow, never grow.

They wear their kindness like perfume,
to mask the stench of hidden gloom.
A painted face, a hollow vow,
they swear forever—break it now.

This is the creed of streets and kings:
betrayal laced in wedding rings.
A friendship sworn, a dagger near,
a gentle laugh, a whispered sneer.

Yet still they gather, hand in hand,
on fragile glass they choose to stand.
A faithful heart is mocked, denied
for truth is what they cannot hide.

And so I walk outside their game,
refuse their crown, reject their name.
For in a world of faith betrayed,
the only faithful is the blade.
Lyra Callen Aug 18
Do you really think
this is the time
to pour concrete over a seed
before it even learns
how to breathe?

You hand a teenager
a mountain of numbers,
a maze of theories,
complex things they never asked for
and call it “preparation.”
But preparation for what?
To forget themselves?
To swallow a life they didn’t choose?

Isn’t it better
to let them wander,
to stumble,
to taste freedom while it still feels new?
Isn’t it better
to let them rise in their own rhythm,
instead of chaining them to desks
and calling the chain “future”?

If degrees are so sacred,
can they not be earned later,
when the heart is steady
and the soul less bruised?
Why must the young
be forced to solve riddles
they do not care for,
when they are already solving
the riddle of themselves?

A teen is a storm,
a flame,
a garden breaking through concrete.
But you jam them,
compress them into shapes
that were never theirs.

And then you wonder
why the light goes out.
Lyra Callen Aug 18
Sugar drips from the tongue,
but it is treacherous honey.
The cake of comfort,
the wine of affection
they rot the teeth of the soul
while tasting divine.

Sweetness wears the mask of angels,
yet underneath,
it festers like roses left too long in the vase,
perfume turning rancid,
petals curling into black paper.

We worship what delights us,
but every delight extracts a price.
The sweetest kiss is laced with venom,
the warmest embrace
tightens into chains.
Even love,
that shimmering elixir,
ferments into grief when swallowed whole.

For is not the sweetest thing
the most dangerous?
Like fruit swollen with sugar
just before it collapses into rot.

Sweetness deceives.
Bitterness reveals.
And in the cathedral of truth,
I kneel not before sugar,
but before the ash
because ash, at least,
does not lie.
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