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Lyra Callen Aug 13
Is it when my voice
is heavy with no,
or when silence chains me
to the no I couldn’t say?

Is it when my hands
refuse to move
in the dance they command,
or when they move anyway
just to keep the peace?

Do I lose my beauty
when my smile doesn’t bloom
on cue,
when my nod isn’t obedient,
when my spine stays straight
instead of bending?

Do I fade
when I cross streets in straight lines,
stand still where told,
pretend I’m fine—
even pretend I’m dead—
to survive the laughter
that stings?

Do I stop being lovely
when my lips pray
instead of pouting,
when they sing,
recite verses,
or whisper secrets to the wind,
but refuse to curse
for entertainment?

Tell me—
is beauty only mine
when I surrender,
when I ache quietly,
when I let their script
become my skin?

Or do I stop being pretty
the moment I live
for myself?
this piece is inspired by Louise's poem  "When Am I Not Pretty".
Lyra Callen Aug 13
I say “I’m fine”
like it’s stitched into my skin,
a reflex learned from years
of swallowing storms.

The truth waits
like a shy guest at my throat,
hesitating,
unsure if the door is safe to open.

Maybe it’s not —
maybe the listener’s hands
aren’t steady enough
to hold what I’m carrying.

So in the end,
I smile,
lock the truth away,
and let “I’m fine”
be the quiet lie
that keeps me suffocate.
Lyra Callen Aug 7
What can I do to help my poems reach as many people as possible?
It’s such a beautiful feeling to hear others' opinions and see things through their perspective—it helps us understand each other better, to feel seen and appreciated.
Sharing your art is a powerful and beautiful thing, and I want to do it with many souls possible.
Lyra Callen Aug 6
I courted shadows in your eyes,
embraced the jagged edge of night.
You pulled my strings like broken dolls,
and I danced through every bite.

A gilded cage of whispered sins,
your poison tasted like devotion.
I wore your scars like sacred marks,
lost deep in your cruel motion.

My heartbeat drummed a twisted hymn,
chanting pleas I could not hear.
You built cathedrals in my chest,
each brick laid with trembling fear.

Blood-red roses crowned your throne,
petals soaked in burning ache.
I worshipped pain as our delight,
gave every piece I could forsake.

Now every scream becomes my song,
each tear a testament of need.
I’m shackled to our dark embrace,
thriving on the wounds you feed.

I’m prisoner and priest in one—
my temple forged from broken bone.
And here within your sinister court,
I’ve finally found my home.
Lyra Callen Aug 6
I drink the poison from your lips,
still call it wine, still take the sip.
You bruise my heart with every kiss,
yet I ache for what I shouldn’t miss.

Your name’s a fire I can't unwrite,
it burns my chest every night.
I tell myself I’ll walk away,
but love like this was meant to stay.

You turn my tears into lullabies,
soft lies dressed in alibis.
Your touch, a cage I begged to hold,
your warmth, a lie I bought and sold.

How can wrong feel so divine?
Why does pain wear your design?
You’re the wound I never clean,
the sweetest ache I’ve ever seen.

Loving you feels like suicide
slow, beautiful, and dignified.
But darling, if it’s you I lose,
I’d die a thousand times. I’d choose.
Lyra Callen Aug 6
I fell for a ghost with blood on his hands,
kissed the blade, and called it romance.
She carved love into my spine,
and I wore the scars like a shrine.

Built a home inside my ruin,
called the silence something human.
She fed me lies like lullabies,
now I dream in shattered cries.

I begged for fire, she gave me frost,
and still I stayed—no matter the cost.
She broke me down to broken art,
signed her name across my heart.

Now pain’s the god I pray to nightly,
my soul bleeds soft and brightly.
I dance where angels dare not tread,
with demons whispering in my head.

I'm a poem of rage and rust,
a masterpiece decayed by trust.
Still, I’d walk back into the flame
just to hear her say my name.
Lyra Callen Aug 6
I was running. Fast. Heart racing, feet slamming against the ground. But even then, a part of me knew, he would catch me.
And he did.

A strong hand gripped my waist with terrifying precision. Muscular. Firm. Unmistakably familiar.
A predator's hand… and I was the prey.
Tears stung my eyes.

Before I could scream or fight, I was yanked back—hard.
My body spun and slammed into his.
Too close.
Close enough to feel the heat of him, the tension in every coiled muscle.
Our bodies weren’t fully pressed, but the electricity in the air made it feel like they were.
I’d been in this exact position more times than I could count. Too many.
Too many times I let myself think I could escape.

“You don’t get to run from me, señorita,” he whispered, voice dark and low—dangerous enough to melt steel.
His breath brushed against my skin, warm and laced with that familiar minty scent.

I stared up at him through blurry, tear-streaked eyes.
My gaze was fire and hopelessness all at once.
But he didn’t care.

He shoved me closer, our bodies colliding.
The force knocked the air from my lungs.
His muscles pressed into every line of me—taut, unrelenting.
But it wasn’t his body I feared.
It was the way he looked at mine.
Like he owned every piece of it.

He brought his mouth to my ear, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.
“Try that again,” he said, “and you’ll find yourself chained in every way imaginable.
Consider this my final warning, love.”

A shiver slid down my spine.
But the words slipped from my lips before I could stop them.
“Pathetic. You call this love?”

He bit down on my earlobe—hard. I flinched.
Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
His gaze, dark and deranged, locked with mine.

“You call it pathetic?” he growled.
“I should show you what pathetic really looks like—so you’ll forget this even was pathetic.”
He leaned in, almost smiling.
“This is how I love. And you... you're already caged. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt.”

And then he kissed me.
Harsh.
Possessive.
No softness, no question.
His hands found my throat, fingers tightening—just enough to make my pulse spike in fear.

I didn’t resist.
Not because I wanted it.
But because I knew resistance only fueled him more.

When he finally pulled back, my lips were bruised, swollen, trembling.
He stared at them like they were his masterpiece.

“You get it now?” he whispered.
“You’re mine. And if you ever dare to run again… I’ll let the world burn just to find you.”

Without another word, he threw me over his shoulder.
Like a prize.
Or a possession.
And carried me straight back to the place I never truly left—
my prison.
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