Was the wrong stage set beneath these feet?
All the unscripted acts, now performed,
but was the entrance mistimed?

Once, a meager mime graced the scene,
expressions neat, steps rehearsed,
a puppet bound to careful strings,
a character fit for all audiences.
Poised, polished, precise—
a show designed to please.

Now, a jekyll jester takes its place,
lips painted with reckless humor,
words spun like juggling pins,
falling in awkward places.

Punchlines miss their mark,
laughter echoes alone.

Missteps once brought fear,
so the scripted cues remained,
routine ensuring a place ahead
before the curtain call.

Now, an offbeat dance unfolds,
improvised lines fill the air,
a breathless chase through scenes
with no clear ending.

Sorrow once hid backstage,
sealed behind a practiced mask,
never seen beneath the paint.

Now, the heart takes center stage,
a tragicomedy in full display,
A jumbled mess of uncertainty,
but the applause never comes.

Joy was the chosen act,
yet joy is met with distance.
The absurd was embraced,
yet absurdity earns no encore.

Laughter rings, the fool plays on—
but the world does not laugh along.

So tell—
is freedom worth the empty seats,
the dance worth the fading light,
or should the mime have remained,
safe in a role that was never real?

She was too harsh that day,
anger spilling over,
words sharper than she meant them to be.
Regret followed, heavy and unshaken.

She reached out, hoping to mend,
hoping to understand.
He told her he never loved her that way—
not in the way she had thought, had hoped.

Suddenly, she was her mother,
he was her father,
and the past repeated itself
without her even realizing.

She doesn’t blame him.
They were never meant to work—
she, a heart that longs for love,
he, a heart that can’t feel it the same way.

Still, it stung.
How easily he let go,
how little she seemed to matter.
She wanted a fight, a reason to stay,
but all she got was silence.

She told him she was in a bad place back then,
how it made everything feel heavier,
how she loved him more than she should have.
The hurt was real,
even if the reasons weren’t simple.

Now, they are something,
not quite friends, not quite strangers.
Maybe this is better—
to know, rather than wonder,
to speak, rather than hear his name in passing.
She hopes she made the right choice.

They called her names for daring to change,
mocked the glint of her piercings, the ink-black nails—
her armor, her manifesto,
a battle line drawn between truth and illusion.
Their whispers slithered through locker rooms,
hushed and sharp, as if difference were a disease.
She bore their labels like a shield,
choosing solitude over shallow smiles,
each sideways glance cutting her off,
yet somehow making her feel more herself.

But words carve deeper than stares.
Their venom lingered, a slur that curdled in her veins.
They didn’t know—couldn’t see—
the fear curled beneath her practiced grin,
how a friend’s laughter could falter,
how a gaze could harden overnight.
She already felt foreign within her own home,
navigating silences sharper than shouts,
enduring their quiet cruelty with every breath.

Now, new laws shadow her steps,
his promises forging unseen chains.
Will she always be an exile here?
Once cherished, once safe,
now cast aside—
a distorted reflection in their narrowed eyes.

Friendships fracture in an instant,
split by forces beyond her reach.
Chained not by choice, but by love,
trapped in a space too small to grow,
wondering if she will ever be free.

She held his hand because it felt right,
because it was expected,
but every touch lingered too long,
every moment is too heavy.

She told him, in quiet ways,
where the line was drawn—
not in anger, not in fear,
but in hope that he would listen.
He didn’t see the lines,
only the space between them.

Not cruel, not forceful,
just unaware, just moving forward
when she needed to stay still.
She let him in,
more than she wanted to,
more than she should have.
And when she finally pulled away,
she thought he would feel the absence.

But he didn’t.
He walked away untouched,
unburdened,
while she sat with all that had been unintentionally taken.

You shook the Magic 8 Ball,
asked for the name of your first love.
“It said lightning,” they laughed.
A silly trick on a starstruck child.

Love didn't strike like that for you.
You tried to be the perfect first lover,
measured love in time, not in touch.
That’s where you went wrong.

No matter how much you gave,
something in you felt broken.
He was caring but distant,
reaching for more of something you couldn't provide.

You scrambled to prove your devotion,
but he never asked you to.
Love, for him, was something quieter,
something you mistook for fading.

You were two missing pieces in the wrong puzzle,
a girl who feared she wasn't enough,
a boy who never needed what you thought love should be.

No matter how hard you tried,
you were never meant to fit.
Maybe, if you’d known sooner,
you wouldn’t be haunted by
the ghost of what was never meant to be.

Stop being a people pleaser. Pain does not need company.
Do not play with hearts just because you think it’s harmless.
Regret won’t rewrite the past. Mistakes don’t justify suffering.
You do not deserve to hurt.

Do not trap yourself in an echo chamber of pain.
Stop oversharing to those who cannot help,
but don’t bite your tongue—there’s a time and place for truth.
If you see someone suffering, reach out.
You cannot carry their pain, but don’t let them bear it alone.

Stop cutting. The scars won’t last, but the regret will linger.
Stop picking at your skin. Those wounds will overstay their welcome.
You don’t have blemishes, so stop creating them.
Pain when walking is not normal. Your feet will fail you.
Do not apologize. It is not your fault.

Depression will haunt you. Your bed will be a black hole.
You do not have to suffer in silence.
Clean out your room.
Old things people have given you do not die when you let them go.
You do not need them burdening you.
Stop trying to leave this world. Mom will fight for you,
keep you out of the hospital. Trust her.
Stop numbing sleepless nights with Benadryl.
Tell someone. Cry. Cry until you can water all your plants.
Cry over the stupidest things and laugh about it later.

Keep writing poetry—it will be your refuge, your truth.
Revise until your words tell the story you want.
Share them. Others will see your perspective.

Your teacher’s harshness is wisdom in disguise. Listen.
Tease back. It is not the end of the world, nor a sign of something deeper.
Speak up in class—you are smart,
and your voice deserves to be heard.
Your grades are not life or death. Breathe.

Dress in dark tones if they comfort you.
Be cringe. Watch your cartoons, love your art,
wear your makeup, chase your dreams.
Let your inner child be free.
The people around you now will be kinder than those in the future.
Let the remnants of the pick-me girl you once were burn with the opinions of others.

Do not pour yourself into friendships just because you see their pain.
You cannot heal them all. Let them go.
You do not need to be friends with everyone.
Hold on to the ones who truly see you.
Stop lying—to yourself, to anyone.
Set boundaries. Stand by them.

More people liked you than you realized.
But do not give your heart away just because they see you.
You have love to give without obligation.
They will not push you away.

Stop falling for him. He will want your body.
You will want something deeper.
Not because he doesn’t love you,
but because you are still healing.
Nothing is wrong with you because intimacy feels foreign.
You’ve been through too much, and it has closed that door for now.
Let go before it breaks you both.
You will lose something worth more than the romance you desire.

Be the anchor for the reckless girl,
but do not let her sink your ship.
She does not own your heart just because you once considered it.
Don’t kiss her.
She won’t end her life at that dance.
She’s just envious that your heart belongs to another.
Let go. It is not worth it.

Stop telling your father things he will not understand.
The distance will grow, but your truth remains yours.

Stop making promises you cannot keep.
Do not avoid people out of guilt.
Things change. They will understand.
Stop lying.
It doesn’t spare pain, only delays it.

Speak up.
Choose what you want for your project.
You are not letting your family down.
It will bring joy that lasts.

Take risks. Courage will unlock doors
that once felt impossible to open.
People trust you. Lead them with the same morals you should practice.
Go for the role in the play—it will awaken your love for acting early.
The thrill of an audience is a friendly thing.
Do not compare yourself. Keep singing. You are beautiful.
Know your worth. Care for yourself first.

The girl who shares your struggles will be your salvation.
Spend time with her. Listen. Help each other heal.
Cherish the math class buddy and the boy who suffers silently.
Acknowledge them. They will change your life.

Savor the 8th-grade trip.
When overwhelmed, reach out.
Do not lock yourself away in that bathroom.
Focus on the fun, not the time you have left to enjoy it.
It will be the last memory where happiness feels untainted.
Laugh too much. Stay up too late.
Have a thousand sleepovers. Bask in every fleeting moment.

And most of all—learn to love yourself.

-If only I had known.

Forget me.
Forget the weight of my presence, the echo of my name.
Forget the wrongs I've done,
And the desperate good that tried to mend them.

Forget the running tally of sins and virtues,
The lies I whispered, the truths I bled,
Hoping—just once—for honesty in return.

Forget my complaints, my boasts,
My voice lost somewhere in between.
Forget the scars carved into my skin,
The wounds I gave myself,
The wounds the world gave me.

Forget my purpose, if I ever had one.
Forget the mask of smiles—both the hollow and the real.
Forget the weight of nostalgia pressing down too soon,
And the guilt that trails behind like a shadow.

Forget every word I’ve spoken,
Every friend who stayed, every friend who left,
Those I failed, and those who failed me.

Forget the sleepless nights spent chasing perfection,
The grades I poured my worth into.
Forget the love I carried in my chest,
And the hurt I scattered in its wake.

Forget the sorrow that burned into rage,
The magnifying glass strapped to my face,
Dissecting every flaw, every misstep,
Every moment that could have been different.

Forget me.
Let me slip from memory like a whisper in the wind,
Like ink washed away by the rain.

Forget me.

She makes bad choices,
patches them with good ones,
layers them thick—
a justification, a mask.

She shapes herself from others' words,
lets their feelings mold her form.
She takes the hurt, swallows it whole,
says it’s nothing—
until later, when she digs,
searching for meaning in the pain.

Attention soothes, guilt festers.
She convinces herself she needs them,
but when they don’t answer,
she pushes them away,
paints them as villains,
until they return—
then she spills the poison
she’s mixed with others’ whispers,
only to regret it when they leave again.

She tries to heal, she tries to stop,
but the urge always calls her back.
She trades one wound for another,
one habit for the next.

She speaks in half-truths,
tells them what they want to hear,
so they’ll give her a piece of themselves.
She offers fragments, never whole,
a script rehearsed, a story bent,
never letting them see the full weight
of what she holds inside.

She whispers how they all leave,
and when they do,
someone tells her it’s for the best.
She believes them—
for a little while.
Then she retreats,
fades into silence,
not cutting ties,
just slipping away.

She hates herself for this,
for the cycle,
for never stopping.

She always helped people.
She had learned early that it made them like her.
She gave smiles, advice, her time, her heart— pieces of herself to make others whole.

Her friends grew close.
They traded secrets for hers.
It was always an exchange.
Her help for their affection.
She quickly understood:
She could make anyone like her.

So she helped more,
even when no one asked,
because happy people made her happy.
Happiness felt transactional—
she gave something to get something in return.

She could always find a problem.
She could always fix it.
Sometimes the piece she gave wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t completely cover their holes.
So she would cut another piece to make up for it.

She thought love worked the same way:
If she gave enough, people would love her.
It became her purpose.

Some holes were too big to fill,
and her pieces weren’t enough.
So she gave more.
And more.
Until the holes in her became too large to ignore.

One day, she looked at her reflection.
The gaping holes stared back.
She was frayed at the edges.
Her fabric was threadbare.

She unraveled herself into ***** of string, delicate, painful pieces of her past:
the split homes,
the distant father,
the overwhelmed mother,
the detached brother.
She pulled it all out,
thinking no one would want those parts.

Those who cared told her to stop.
“Piece yourself back together,” they said.
It made her angry.
She didn’t know how.

Still, she tried.
Slowly, she began sewing the fragments.
At first, the stitches were uneven.
Her hands shook.
The thread snapped.
She sewed anyway.

She learned the difference between giving and losing.
Between helping and sacrificing.
Between love and transactions.

She discovered that her worth didn’t come from being needed.
That love wasn’t something she had to earn.
That her purpose wasn’t to patch others at her own expense.

One day, she looked at her reflection again.
The holes were still there,
but they were smaller now.
She had filled them with care,
not with pieces torn away.
She wasn’t whole yet,
but she wasn’t unraveling either.
And for the first time,
That was enough.

You’ve been there—
in the silence, in the noise,
in the moments when words failed her.

You never asked for explanations,
never needed a reason to stay.
You just knew—
what to say, when to listen,
when to stay with her in the mess of it all.

Through every storm,
every mistake,
every version of her she's been,
you stood beside her,
steady as ever.

Others don’t always understand your quiet,
the way you let the world move around you
without demanding to be seen.
They miss the humor in your words,
the strange knowledge you carry,
the way your mind wanders into places
most people never think to go.

But she sees you.
She hears you.
And she will always listen.

There are things only you and her
seem to see the same way,
truths unspoken but understood,
woven into late-night talks.

You are not perfect—
neither is she—
but in a world that often misunderstands,
You meet in the space between words,
where no explanations are needed,
where thoughts flow freely.

Though you do not hold her heart in a romantic sense,
you know her and it better than anyone.
You hold more of her secrets than anyone,
always treading carefully to her appreciation.
She sees strength in you—even when you do not see it yourself.

You, who handles her harsh truths with careful understanding
Who wishes to learn what turns her mind
Who supports her without asking for anything in return,
Who opens her mind to new horizons she never would have explored.

Yours is not a story of longing,
but of knowing,
of minds that find each other
when the rest of the world
feels just a little too far.

She doesn't say it enough,
but she sees it.
She sees you.
And she is grateful,
for always being her rock.

She was never a delicate thing,
never built for gilded cages
or paths paved by someone else’s hands.

She walked where the ground was uneven,
where the air smelled of rain and reckoning,
where silence spoke louder than words.

And you—
you never tried to pull her back,
never told her to be smaller, quieter,
never asked her to trade her fire for something softer.

You just walked beside her,
matching her steps without needing to lead.
You saw the weight she carried,
the exhaustion behind her eyes.

You never offered easy answers,
never tried to paint over the cracks.
You just listened, understood,
let her be without demanding change.

The world had taught her to be cautious,
to expect hands that only stayed
when they had something to hold.

But you—
you stayed with nothing to take,
with no need to claim her story as your own.

Not to save her.
Not to fix her.

Not to make yourself the reason she stood tall.
But because that’s who you are.
Not a shadow lurking, waiting for more.

Not a figure demanding to be seen.
But something steady, something real—
the kind of hero no one writes stories about,
but the kind who matters most.

Your hurtful actions were paper cuts,
Small, unintentional.
Overtime they built up
Now, every memory she touches
Stings like an open wound.

What began as paper-thin pain
Has torn gashes deep in her heart.
It bleeds, unseen,
At least it’s only on the inside.

She was told had a big heart,
you wrung it dry,
A shriveled thing, brittle as a raisin.

She tried to breathe life back into it,
Rejuvenating it with sweat from restless hands,
Work a veil, a shield against you.

For a moment, she thought she healed—
Felt the fullness return, ripe as a grape,
Until your shadow crept back in,
Once more, it withered.

This time, she let her tears do the watering,
Let herself grieve what you stole.
Some things don’t grow back the same—
Sweetness was stolen when you reaped what you did not sow.

She never meant to be the snake,
to tempt you with something forbidden.
You bit into her like an apple,
Consumed what you never planned to keep.

So choke on the bitterness—
It’s all that’s left for you.
You will never taste her heart again.

It's funny how we used to joke about birthdays,
How "You're not invited to mine" was our favorite tease.

That time had long passed.

When her birthday finally came,
She waited—eyes fixed on midnight—
For that one text.

She.
The girl who had his home phone number stuck to her wall
Because he didn’t have a cell.
Who called when he was sick,
Felt the world dim on the days he wasn’t at school.
Gathered his forgotten sweater,
Found warmth in no hug but his.
Loved him more deeply than she thought possible,
Stayed alive just to see his face again.

She.
The one to end
The relationship,
The friendship.
The connection.

The girl who stupidly still hoped-

The text never came.

She wanted him to come see her perform
To witness how happy she was without him
See that she had moved on

She told her friends, "If he shows up, I'll punch him."
They swore if she didn’t, they would.
She laughed along,
Knowing she wouldn't have

The little girl from her past was crying
Watching how different she had become
The girl didn't understand
She just wanted her friend to be proud of her.

She hated how she searched the audience every night,
Knowing you wouldn't be there.

She finally escaped another love that poisoned her,
this time, she had learned.
She plucked the flower at its prime—
froze its beauty
and left the rot behind,
a parasite she would not let fester.

She didn’t let it decay like before.

She laughed, feeling lighter,
no longer weighed down by the chains
she once mistook for bracelets,
adorning her wrists with rust.
Now, she could heal.

On the day the world celebrated love,
on the eve of a past she wanted to forget,
a voice clawed its way back in.
Memories crashed over her,
tears slipping between echoes of laughter.
The same friends who once listened to her joy
now listened to her grief—
what once felt like the best day of her life
had soured into something else.

Happiness was never hers for long.

She had been told love binds—
a thread between two souls,
a thread she had tried to sever so many times.
Her blade was dull,
each attempt only pulling it tighter,
tugging the past closer once more.

After silence stretched too long—
silence she had learned to love—
He came with apologies.
Too late.
Too late for all the sleepless nights,
the heavy weight of unlearning.

She wouldn’t let this moment slip away.
She found her voice, sharp and unrelenting,
reminding him of the wounds he left,
the scars are still etched into her skin.

He denied.
Twisted the truth to what he saw.
Tried to reshape her pain
into something palatable, forgivable.
But she remembered.
She carried the weight of it.
How could he not?

After everything she gave,
everything she thought was real,
it was never the same to him.

She listed all she had done,
and it didn’t even cover half of it.
He said he was grateful.

She wished gratitude could heal her.

It ended with quiet goodbyes,
a bitter farewell to the people they once were,
before they tangled themselves in thread.

She wishes she could ask how he was,
like she did back then.
But the thread tightens,
coiling around her throat,
a noose spun from something never meant to be,
choking on what should have never been,

“More than friends”

She always loved villains.
Their backstories ran deeper,
their motives burned stronger,
their sacrifices carved into something greater.
She loved tracing the outlines of who they were
before the world rewrote them.

And you—
you were once the hero in her story.
The one who made her laugh too loud,
who knew every hidden piece of her,
who stood beside her when the world turned cold.

When she was younger, she wondered who she would become.
So she fought to be the hero—
offering kindness, a gift wrapped in thorns,
bleeding so others could smile.
She loved you in the way she thought heroes should—
with open hands, with boundless trust,
with a heart she never thought would turn to dust.

Now, she wonders—
Is she the villain in your story?

Late at night, do you too rewind your past like an old film,
pausing at the moments when you stood side by side,
when the laughter still belonged to both of you,
when you swore you’d never drift apart?

She remembers.
She remembers the silent unraveling,
the space between words that grew too wide,
the way your paths split like fraying seams.
And when she let go, it didn’t break clean.

She wonders if she wrote herself into the role,
if she sharpened her edges too much to return.
Maybe you heard her name whispered through another’s lips,
a story rewritten in shades of someone she never meant to be.

You came back to offer an apology,
expecting soft forgiveness,
finding only the weight of unsaid words.
You had never seen her walls built so high.

Before, you watched as she turned her fire inward,
dimming herself for the sake of others.
Now, she wields it differently,
not to destroy, but to shield.

And yet—beneath the armor, beneath the distance,
She still misses the hero who once stood beside her.
She wonders if the story could ever be rewritten,
if villains and heroes could meet again,
not as enemies, but as something softer.

Tell her, when you look at her now,
Do you still see the girl you once knew?
Or has the story already ended?

Look at me.
Look at me,
The way you looked at her.

Unable to tear your eyes away as I sat helpless.

Do you still think I’m pretty?
Do you even remember that feeling?

I hope my absence
Brings you peace—
Peace my love couldn’t.

I hope you feel the pain
You put me through.

She looks for you in everybody,
And finds you in no one.
Is that a blessing or a curse?
To love someone
Who doesn’t exist anymore?

You died long ago,
Your corpse does not rot.
They say to let you go,
She can not.

Not until
She can forgive you
For killing what trust
Was left in her

Take what you need,
Leave her remains.

May
Worms and maggots
Show pity

You made her spiral,
She named it love.
She’s fond of the good days,
The moments where you
Were not a painful memory.

You did what you promised not to,
She forgave you
Before you apologized.
Why?
Why did she forgive you?

You are a language
She no longer speaks fluently.
She stumbles on your words,
Yet she can still read
The story of what was.

Afraid to be the one who remembers,
Afraid to be the one who forgets.
Why did we go through it all,
Only for it to end
Like it never meant a thing?

Why did you turn into a lesson,
A story she must tell myself
To avoid repeating?

The hurt fades,
She still feels it.
She was just hoping
You’d stay a little longer.

Forgive her for biting you,
For hissing when she felt afraid.
She begged for protection,
Not to invite pain.

She is sorry she always needs reassurance.
Sorry I hurt you.
She’ll gag herself if she must,
If it means you’ll feel safe again.

You liked what she gave,
Not who she was.
You could only ever love
Half of her
Her straight half.

You called her smart,
Yet made her feel stupid,
A contradiction she carries.

She will wait at the window,
Ears tucked,
Hoping for your return,
Even as she know
You’re gone for good.

Now you are a stranger
With all her secrets—
Fragments of her heart
You hold unknowingly.

She wants nothing more
Than to forget your name,
It lingers on her tongue
A half-remembered song.

She misses you,
But she doesn't want to see you.
She saw this coming.
Why does it still hurt?

She has a dad,
Never a father.

She wonders who you are
When you're not lying—
To yourself,
To everyone else.

She is too young to feel
This nostalgia.
Too young to ache
For what's already gone.

No matter how she tries,
She can't outrun
what could’ve been.

She sits
a puddle of regrets surrounding her

Mopping with apologies

each stroke
spreading hurt
like ink in water

The stain lingers
A reminder
of what
she didn’t spill

she wonders
if her hands that tremble
can ever make
the glass whole
again.

You crave intimacy,
Vulnerability sits
heavy on your chest.
You want to be known,
Yet long to disappear.

They dance across the room,
Joyful and unbothered.
You
forced to watch,
Rooted in place.

No matter how much you try to change,
you will always be seen
As a hurt child

You want to rip your skin,
Peel back the layers,
Find the ugliness
You feel inside.

You promise you are kind.
You promise you are good.

Yet you bite.

You don't know why.
No matter how you try,
You always see the savage beast-
Not meant for love.

You promise you are good.
You promise you are kind.

But the bite-

They never forget the bite.
So you look into the mirror
And pick at yourself
Till there is nothing left
But ugliness.

She is learning to forgive
The parts of her
That ache for no reason.
The hollow spaces
That cry out silently.

She presses on the spots that hurt.
Does the pain
Make her feel alive?
Or is she just searching
For something to hold onto?

She keeps blaming herself
For things she can't control.
She ruins what she touches,
Destroys what she loves.
She ruined so much
In her quest to be seen.

She presses on pain,
Reliving it
A reminder to herself:
She is still here.

She loved his wit, his laugh,
his crooked smile, his effortless style.
She loved his voice—bright and soft,
like a song only she could hear.

She loved tending to his wounds,
admiring his bravery.
She loved the way his hand fit in hers,
how he’d squeeze just a little tighter,
as if afraid she might slip away.

She loved how he’d scowl when she outshined him in school,
how he’d wrap his arms around her,
his hand tracing soft circles on her back
as if she were something fragile, fleeting.

She loved his music, though she swore hers was better,
how he caught her lies with ease—
Sometimes she hated that, but it saved her from herself.
She loved how he cared for his brothers
even when they drove him mad,
how scraps in his hands became whole worlds.

She loved his focused tongue,
his fingertips tracing her lips as she closed her eyes.
She loved how he’d lose himself in his passions,
his words overflowing when he spoke of what he loved.
She could listen for hours.

She loved his obsession with her hair,
Her proudest art piece.
She loved curling into his arms,
how he’d joke about his sharp bones,
but she never cared—
They were her shelter.

She loved how he let her playfully bite him,
laughing at her childish ways.
She loved the purple boba plushie he gave her,
their shared favorite color stitched into the seams.
She loved how he carried the card she made,
hidden in his backpack, tucked close.

It was a warning of the coming storm.

She hated the betrayal in his eyes
when she hurt herself,
when she refused the hand he offered
and let the blade speak instead.

She hated the silence that followed
when she told him the truth—
that girls could hold her heart too.
How his love wavered, unsure,
like she was suddenly someone new.

She hated his impatience with her sleepless nights,
his frustration when she poured her light into others,
leaving nothing for herself—
nothing for him.

She hated how it hurt him
to repeat that she was beautiful,
until one day, he simply stopped.
He was not a broken record,
and she was listening too late.

She hated how he begged for her time,
how her attention felt like a crime.
She hated the way he sighed when she rambled,
how his eyes glazed over,
how he seemed to love his games more than her words.

She hated that he thought he wasn’t enough,
that he saw shadows where there were none.
That he doubted her, suspected her,
simply because she softened her truths,
because she coated her words in sugar,
trying to keep them from cutting too deep.

She hated the sharp words he threw instead,
cutting her raw—
but she only smiled,
refusing to break,
refusing to let him see the wounds.

She hated that she never got his sweater,
never felt its warmth in the cold.
She hated the way they drifted,
like ships unmoored,
as their friend group crumbled—
the one thing they swore they’d hold together.

She hated that her pain became his burden,
that she was exactly what she never wanted to be.
That she couldn't heal,
couldn’t reach for him,
couldn’t be saved.

She hated that she hit too hard,
that her touch was always a little too much,
that her love language was a puzzle
he never figured out.
She hated that she thought he would.

She hated the way she froze
when his touch crossed the line,
the way she blamed herself
for not being like other girls,
for not wanting what she was supposed to.
She felt like a failure.
She felt like she let him down.

And when it ended—
She hated that he didn’t fight.
She spent hours crafting that text,
sanding down the edges,
trying to leave without wounding.

And all he said was, okay.

She hated that.
Hated that he let go so easily,
that he didn’t try to hold on,
that she meant so little in the end.

She hated the last thing he said,
"Don’t lie to the next one like you did to me."

He never saw—
that her lies were just love in disguise,
woven from fear, from care,
from the desperate hope
that if she softened the truth,
it wouldn’t break them apart.

She loved him deeply,
but for every joy, there was a sting.
And in loving him,
she lost herself.

He didn’t cheat,
He didn’t abuse you,
He didn’t shame you,
He didn’t overshare.
He offered you help,
He was there for you,
He was a good boyfriend.

You hurt him.
You hit him.
He had paid for something for you and you hit him.
You kissed her—
It doesn’t matter why.
It was still betrayal,
You knew it.

You didn’t speak up
When his words cut you deep.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve always struggled to speak.
You let discomfort simmer,
When you needed space, you stayed silent.

You overshared your pain—
You should have saved that for therapy,
No matter how much it choked you.
You hurt him with your mental health,
You should have walked away
Before the damage grew.

You didn’t accept his help.
You should have fought harder
Even when you were tired,
You drowned him in your storm.
You couldn’t be there for him
When he needed you most.

You spread yourself thin
But should’ve tried harder to focus on him.
He touched you when you were asleep,
It wasn’t okay—
Yet, you said it might be,
It wasn’t.

You should have spoken up
When his touch crossed a line,
When his sounds felt wrong,
When his presence clung too tight.
You stayed quiet.
You bottled it up as always,
Now it’s too late.

You knew he couldn’t survive a girlfriend like you,
Yet it still hurts, seeing him move on.
When you saw him again,
you touched him like you hadn’t broken,
You regret that.

Now he’s moved on.
He’s healed.
Your apology sits,
Because he sees the truth.
You never like to admit that you’re wrong.
You haven’t gotten any better.

She kissed the girl, betraying your trust,
Breaking the first unspoken rule of relationships.
She tells herself it was the only way,
Guilt consumes her every night.

The girl was lost, ready to fall,
Too scared, she gave in to it all.
She should have thought of another way,
now her heart breaks everyday,
Reaping what she’s sewn.

She’s sorry she kissed that girl, it wasn’t right,
Your touch that night also stole a part of her.
And she wonders if you, too, felt what she did the day she kissed the girl.

She regrets betraying you
But at least she asked first.

You wanted to change your name,
erase it like a smudge on a window,
disappear,
somewhere no one knows your story.
Maybe then, you could heal-
become someone whole, someone untouched,
someone not scarred by the memory of him.

Thoughts of him coat your tongue in bile,
the bitterness rising every time his name is whispered.
Seeing him smile twists something
a nauseous pull that you can’t swallow down.

You want to be happy for him,
The lie is sour,
a betrayal you taste with every forced smile.

You think of all the things you would do
if you had never met him-
if his eyes never reflected your hopes,
if his voice had never filled your silences.
If you had never cared for him,
never nurtured the parts of him that bled into you,
maybe you could have stayed unbroken.
if you had never felt the things you felt with him,
if his words had never mattered more than your own,
maybe you wouldn’t feel like this,
walking on glass,
the shards cutting with every thought of him.

You wish you could erase him.
Wipe away every trace of his existence in your mind,
so you could stop freezing at the sound of his name,
stop the tears from welling up
when you’re reminded of all that was,
and all that will never be again.

You know you have to move on-
he’s made it so clear,
his life blooming in ways yours can’t.
Good for him.
Here you are, still toxic,
festering beneath the surface.
No matter how much you try to change,
You’re just patching over the rot,
masking the parts of him you can’t face.

You need to ****** this feeling,
bury it deep,
turn your back on the festering wound.
You walk forward,
telling yourself each step is progress,
The weight drags you down.
If you keep going like this,
you’ll crumble under it all.

Maybe that’s what you want-
to fall apart, to die in yourself,
once and for all.

That day she saw you again,
She wore mascara to be composed.
She hates mascara.
It's weight on her lashes,
Another mask she didn’t want to wear.

She rubbed her eyes, smudging black streaks,
You noticed, said it’s why she shouldn’t wear it.
You laughed, not understanding-
She wasn’t trying to smudge her makeup,
She was trying to blur the feelings that resurfaced,
The memories flooding back,
The space that once felt small,
Now a million miles wide.

You didn’t know her eyes carried the heaviness of what once was,
the sorrow of what had become.

It wasn’t the mascara she wanted to wipe away,
It was the feeling of you, still plaguing her.

After so long, it hurt to meet his gaze
to find only emptiness,
a reflection of all the things they couldn’t say.
The pieces still ache.
She wants him to be happy,
The thought of it twists the knife in her chest.

He had sliced her open with the truth,
a cut too deep to ignore.
It wasn’t the kind of pain she knew how to love,
not the kind she could soothe with time.
She bled herself dry-
not realizing, in her desperation to be whole,
She had cut him too.
She tried to get better,
tried to stitch her wounds shut
in the shape of someone he could love.

Healing doesn’t happen for others,
she didn’t see it then.
She had to stop bleeding for him
start mending for herself.
She had to meet the parts of her
And learn to love them in the way
he never could.

She is still learning.
She did so much,
gave so much of herself
to love him, to love everyone,
she was hollowed out,
Spreading herself thin like a worn-out thread.
he only saw the fraying edges,
the pieces of her she couldn’t keep together.

He couldn’t handle her truth-
truth that she is broken and whole
in ways he refused to see.
she is left here,
grappling with the fact
she couldn’t handle it either.

Why didn’t you feel safe in her home?

Echos of that question lingers in the girls mind,
even after their paths had long split,
off to fight their own battles.

What walls did she build
That made you hesitate to stay?
What shadows danced here
to make you look away?

Your words crushed the girl—
a confession she didn’t know she feared,
a wound she couldn’t see before it became chronic.

She had always wanted this place to be their haven,
a space where comfort blooms and they could be free to bask in each other’s carefree wonder.

She told you she didn’t like compliments
a shield she wore
hiding her distrust of others words.

Deep down, she longed for his persistence,
His patience to show her the mirror
of how he saw her,
to make her believe in what she couldn’t see.

She used to test you,
not realizing the cracks it carved
into trust she swore was solid.

She was naïve,
chasing moments of play,
fumbling through the chaos of first loves,
blind to the damage she left behind,
Damage she would never be able to heal.

She desperately waited for him
to charge into the storm of her mind
and save her from herself.

He had already fallen,
struck by the arrow she unknowingly shot—
meant to carry her love,
yet veiled in her fear and doubt.

She is always the architect of her own ruin,
the weaver of her own undoing,
the main character in a tragedy
she never meant to write,
but always knew by heart.

The storm of blame circulates,
“It’s his fault.”
She tells herself,
Trying to make it hurt less.
But she knows—
She hurt him too.

Her mind was a wildfire,
burning everything in its path.
Her pain rained down on him,
and though he tried to hold her steady,
she let herself drown,
refusing his hand.

He hated how little she cared for herself.
Hated watching her spiral,
helpless to stop the fall.
She swallows the guilt like it’s the last meal on earth,
fills the emptiness with it,
chokes on the weight of everything she did wrong.

When she tells others about it,
they all take her side.
It doesn’t feel right.
They didn’t see the pain in his eyes
when he saw through her mask,
when he realized he couldn’t fix what was breaking inside her.

She still feels his presence
shaping the choices she makes.
He wanted to save her.
She tried to let him.
She wasn’t fast enough.

If she could rewind, erase her mistakes,
she’d never have let him step into her storm.
She wishes she’d never met him,
wishes she never put him in a place
where he had to choose between himself and her.

She pulled the thread that unraveled them,
took the final step that ended it all.
And he—
He didn't fight it.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t beg her to stay.

She wanted him to stop her,
to tell her they could still make it,
that he wasn’t ready to let go.
But in his eyes, she saw the truth—
He needed it to end too.

It’s not his fault.
Or maybe it is.
Or maybe it’s hers.

She’s still spinning in circles,
a constant rollercoaster,
trying to get off this ride,
wondering if she’ll ever find solid ground again.

Twists
and
turns.

She made you a card,
delicately traced with kisses,
each one a promise she feared she couldn’t keep.
She soaked it in perfume,
hoping it would linger,
poured her heart into words,
but still—
it wasn’t enough to show you her love.

She brought you food every day,
packed with your favorites,
always more than enough—
enough to share,
enough to prove she thought of you
even when you weren’t there.
But even in the smallest offerings,
it still wasn’t enough.

She made a playlist,
songs stitched together with memories of you,
listened religiously,
let your name be the first thing on her lips each morning.
Even then,
It wasn't enough.

You were the reason she stayed.
The reason she slept.
The reason she awoke.
She held your hands despite your doubts,
whispered reassurances you struggled to believe.
She tried to heal herself for you,
tried to be better—
but it still wasn’t enough.

And then, that night in the car,
when she let herself rest in your lap,
you shattered something inside her.
You apologized,
called yourself ****,
but even then, she wanted to stay,
wanted to believe love could erase the hurt.

In the end, she left—
not because she stopped loving you,
but because she was too frozen to stay.
Yet all she remembers now
are the ways she hurt you,
the times she fell short.
She knows she had bad with her good.
She tried to be better—
for you.

When she looks into your eyes,
she doesn’t see the love she gave,
only the girl who was never enough.

You never taught her how to play that game you loved so much.
You said she wasn’t the kind of person who could commit,
That she’d never spend that much money on something like that.
You never knew
she would’ve emptied her pockets,
Sold everything she had, just to share an interest with you.
If it meant sitting across from you,
Speaking your language

She almost watched videos about it, trying to learn on her own.
Late nights, phone screen glowing in the dark,
Every time, she’d pause, fingers hovering over the play button,
Because what she really wanted was for you to teach her.
She wanted it to be more than just a game—
She wanted to say, “My boyfriend taught me this,”
To hold the cards in her hands like they were a part of your soul,
A fragment passed down from you to her.

Instead, she stood on the sidelines, watching,
Feeling like she was always just outside your world.
You didn’t know how much she craved that connection,
How much she longed for something you could build together,
Something that would’ve tied you closer,
Threaded through with meaning,
Something more than just a game.

It wasn’t the cards she wanted.
It was the time spent, the lessons learned,
A moment where you saw her not as an outsider,
As someone who belonged in your world.
Instead, she is left to wonder,
What it might have felt like to share that magic with you.

Every time you see a beanie,
Your heart skips a beat—
Not in the way that makes you feel alive.
It stutters, hesitates,
As if it might stop altogether.

It turns to stone, heavy and cold,
Sinking deep into your chest
Holding you down like Excalibur in the stone
To the past you’ve tried to leave behind.

A simple thing, a beanie,
It carries the weight of memories,
Of moments you can’t outrun.
You feel the ache of what once was,
A reminder of what you’re still trying to forget,
The stone that continues to grow heavier.

You sighed,
Wanted her to be clean
Not the kind of clean that bathed themselves everyday,
Dabbled on the prettiest perfumes
Did their makeup like the most talented artist

You wanted her to be clean in the way that she didn’t tear herself open.
To be clean in the way that showers didn’t sting like alcohol in a wound
You wanted her to not have stained thoughts every time she saw a blade to not have to the wipe blood off her skin every time you couldn’t be there
You wanted her to be clean in the way that your love could make her whole

Purging her skin like it is filled with maggots
Wiping it with a blade as if it is the softest towel
Feeling the warmth like the Sun on a cold morning, blood dripped down her body.
Offering her a fleeting comfort you could never understand

How could it be that you look at those parts of her with such disgust?
Pulling the fabric of her clothes over them like a curtain of shame
Unable to bear the sight of something so grotesque.

They are the realest parts of her,
showed the raw truth of what ugliness she brews
the only parts of her she found peace in,
The only parts she finds pretty.

She is here.
you do not care if she is clean or *****
Because you realized all she could ever do was drag you through the darkness and contaminate you.

She loved him.
He said it back—
two words, a lifeline
She was filled
What if she didn’t fulfill him?
What if she was just a passing light,
a flicker in the dark he no longer needed?

She danced at the edge,
Blind to the truth beneath the rhythm
Loving him because she needed to be loved
Not realizing the ache of that hunger
Until he hurt her beyond ignorance.

Relief washed over her—
Not because it was over,
Because the split finally came.
He took parts of her
Scattered like whispers
Leaving her to drown
In a flood of her own making.

They say it takes time
to descend from that high
of loving someone too much.
He’s already walking ahead
writing a story where she is a forgotten footnote
A stone he kicked and left behind in the dust.

Being kicked to the curb hurt.
Not immediately—
She moved forward, numb
as the days passed
She began to crumble
Piece by piece.

She wants herself back.
What if he is what she still wants?
Even now
With him cast as a thief
In the narrative of her heart,
She finds herself missing the weight of his presence.

Bitter fruit grows from seeds she sowed of her doubt and unresolved problems-
Overtaking the memories of love she thought was healthy.

“You’ll understand the need one day.”
She wondered if that day would come—
when her skin cracked like paper-mâché.
She kissed him,
expecting fireworks her mother once described.
She was met with darkness and discomfort.

Your lips claimed connection,
but her heart whispered betrayal.
You held her hands, damp with want,
and she clung to you,
as if tomorrow might vanish in the haze of your hunger.
Your kisses were curses.
Your moans, sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

You always wanted more.
She wanted less.
But she knew—knew that if she said so,
your love might slip through her fingers.
So she swallowed her words,
let them sink beneath the weight of your doubt.
Her stomach churned at the thought of surrendering further,
but she feared what silence might mean.

She thought this was love’s price.
It felt like punishment,
a debt she owed for not being what you needed.
A cruel vengeance
for the love you hoped would reshape her.

Your need was relentless,
a siren’s call echoing through her fragile soul.
She tried to answer,
to meet the demands of a love she didn’t understand.
But no matter how much she gave,
there was always something more to prove.

She saw the way your gaze flickered—
whenever a boy made her laugh too freely,
whenever she held a girl in a fleeting embrace.
You feared she could slip away in any direction,
as if her love had no center.
She feared it too—
feared that if she stepped too close,
if she let herself love fully,
you’d see the truth and call it betrayal.
So she learned to quiet herself,
to keep her heart caged behind careful distance,
to let her silence be the currency of survival.

Her love for all was buried beneath layers of tolerance.
Your unease hung heavy in the air,
a suffocating reminder
that even monsters must learn to breathe in secret.

Now you’re gone.
And she is free.

Free to let the monster breathe,
her truth exhaled.
Yet freedom still walks on glass,
the world sharpens its claws,
a family poised to cast stones,
a society waiting to tear her apart.

No longer chained by the need for proof,
she holds her truth like a flame—
fragile and bright.

The Mom gets frustrated with her Dad-
The way he thinks only of himself,
How he repeats the same stories,
Never truly listening,
How his jokes sting with carelessness.

She fears of becoming like him,
In her eyes, he can be found.
The way they both speak with their hands,
Spending hours making meals to share,
Bopping along to the music,
Both chasing the fear of not doing enough.

They are bound by blood and care,
The Mom has gone farther,
Breaking free from the shadow of her father.
Yet she carries him still—
In her smile, her kindness,
And the drive that fuels her love for her kin.

The day he was diagnosed,
She took the phone,
Pressed it to her ear-
“Hello? Is he okay? When will you be home?”
Such simple questions.
She didn’t realize how vast the space between them had just grown,
A distance that would stretch further as they aged.

She remembers watching her Mom with his supplies,
Every movement committed to memory,
Just in case he needed her.
She learned what carbs were,
Wanted to give him his shots,
To always be there for him.

She held his hand as needles pierced his innocent skin,
Ran for juice boxes whenever his blood sugar crashed,
Not knowing their bond was turning to sand,
Slipping quietly through her fingers.

He fell into silence, a shadowed space,
She tried to be his anchor, he shut her out.
Yet he was her hero-
She spoke of him like a legend to her friends,
Worked hard to match his stride,
The two years between them felt like decades.

She built a bridge over the gap, trying to catch up to him
The gap kept growing.
She sat in the middle of that bridge,
Waiting
She couldn’t bring herself to burn it.

Then she saw it—the hurt, the anger in his eyes.
As she climbed higher, excelling
She became what he feared to see.

She was in the spotlight
Adored and praised.
At first, it felt like victory-
Until she saw what it cost him.
She stopped liking the pedestal.

To him, nothing changed.
She remained high above,
Not where she wanted to be,
She only wanted him.
All she saw reflected his growing envy.

Time moved on her body changed,
Turning into something unfamiliar,
He said he would protect her.
She believed him.

When the time came, he couldn’t.
She gave up,
Accepted what he had become in her eyes,
She shut him out,
Wounded and wishing,
One day, he’d help her
The way she had helped him-
How they used to help each other.

After the scars have piled up,
He’s here again.
Like a wounded animal,
She treads carefully.
In her eyes he is a fair weather friend,
Her heart is fragile,
Too fragile to trust so easily.

She tears her voice for him.
He couldn’t hear her on the field
The crowd of players too loud
His pain a deafening roar

Blinded by his mistakes
Choking in his self-doubt
A chamber of his own despair
She begged to join him there.

Her turn to play came
He didn’t show for her game
She wished he’d cheered for her.
She searched the stands
He was nowhere.

He arrived
At last
He was there for her
By then
She was on the bench.

Hey
Hello
How are you
Can you hear me?
Oh, I’m sorry.
You want me to say your name when I’m talking to you.
You want to know I acknowledge you.
Say your name, because you want me to see you.
See your effort.
But you don’t see me.

You never wanted tea.
You don’t even like tea—
It lingers on your lips,
the scalding fear of it burning,
it twists its way inside,
leaving a sickly warmth in its wake.

You prefer cold tea,
sharp and distant,
they tell you it lacks flavor,
warmth is the point—
the richness, the indulgence.
warm tea churns your stomach,
fills it with a heat you never asked for.

You drank his tea
Only a few sips
To prove you could like it,
You had to prove it to him,
You always hated the feeling.

He respected you for a while,
Stayed content with your cold tea,
you knew he was just trying to like the taste.
He was doing what you did,
Trying to stomach the poison.

He poured his tea on you,
let it spill into your clothes,
seeping in with unwanted warmth.
The stains would never wash out
clinging to your skin it left you ill,

You never wanted tea.
Not from him.
Not at all.

She’s seen it all before,
the same cycles.
Disappointment taught her to brace for the fall.

She tried to normalize it,
Dull the sting,
She wished for the echoes to finally rest.

That tiny wish grew,
a parasite feeding her pain.
She became unrecognizable—
a patchwork of others wishes
stitched together with the threads of her love.

Nothing stays the same forever.
She was the very thing she feared,
trapped in the circle she swore to break.

So she rips herself apart,
threads her pieces with lies,
sewing herself together
with the desires of others.
Praying for her is enough.

But people change.
She tears herself to shreds,
always the parasite,
siphoning their pain,
leaving behind her poison
in hands that never asked for it.

She is rotten.
She rots
And rots
And rots.
She doesn’t try to change

Her thoughts are filth.
How she thinks of herself
Others
She is disgusting

She covers it up
With makeup
With music
With lies.

Eventually truth seeps through.
She tries to distance herself-
Hoping it will cover the stench.

Those who are close have seen her truth
They always leave
She is broken.

She helps others with everything she has
Hoping it will purify her
It fills in her missing pieces
Eventually, she is out of holes

So she makes new ones.
She carves herself into shambles

Hatred oozes from her new sculpture.
For herself
For others
For the past
For the present
For the future.

The fear of what she’s done-
Who she’s become
Consumes her
She is corroded.

So she thinks
She lies
And she rots.

You are toxic.
You hate yourself
People scramble to tell you that you shouldn’t
That you are amazing

The only truth is that
You.
Are.
Toxic.

You have built so many lies around yourself
To keep yourself safe
Do you know what you are?

You are a pathological liar
You write the script
You are the creator of your own hell.
You hate that you do it,
You can’t stop,
You won’t.

Gagged for so many years,
You were scared of what twisted thing would come out
You should have kept your voice locked away.

Bottle things up till you explode
Switch the formula for every person.
Releasing an over processed chemical you call the truth

You mirror others
Pay close attention to them
Learn what kind of person they are
Some call you thoughtful
You are spinning your webs of lies.

The best lie has a bit of the truth
You can’t tell the difference
You end up hurting those you love.
In turn hurt yourself to make it equal
That just hurts them back

It is an endless cycle of torture
You are your hell.

When someone confronts you
You rage.
Scream at them for seeing the true you
Tell them about all the things you have done for them-
How much you have helped them
Careful to cut out the ugly parts
Others back you up
They haven’t met the true you.

You are a double edged sword
Both the sweetest drink-
And most toxic poison.

You would never choose yourself
You always knew people would leave
You hurt them too much
You still wish they stayed.