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 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.

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.

Trapped.
You hear them outside the door,
hushed voices beckoning you—
Coaxing a frightened animal.

You sit,
desperate to halt the spiral,
grasping for lifelines you don’t have:
no blade, no music.
Cornered.

Familiar voices call out,
None are safe.
Your mind races,
chased by the fear of being seen—
their worry,
their pity.
All you ever accomplish is being a burden.

Be better,
Have fun,
laugh in the glow of a carefree moon.
Instead crescent moons dance across your hands
Nails the paint nocturnes of your pointless pain
Your hands the canvas

Why do you ruin everything?
Why do you have to make it about yourself?
The thoughts drag you under.
To quiet them,
Hurt them,
Make them stop.

Your sleeve slides up.
Scars stare back,
silent witnesses to your retreat,
Reminders of your broken promises
Of histories rule,
It repeats.
Search for sharper objects—
Teeth.

Not enough.
The voices outside continue,
reassuring whispers
Into enemies
by chaos in your head.

A note slips beneath the door:
“Are you okay?”
You cannot answer—
Your voice belongs to them now.
You tear the paper,
a feeble attempt at communication.
They don’t understand.
You don’t understand.

You bite harder,
bruises blooming nightshade.
Punishment for the scene you’ve caused.
Please, let this be enough,
To quiet your thoughts,
To return you to normal.

Your mind slows,
as bedtime is called.
Your legs obey,
breath steadies.
The door slides open.

You slip past their outstretched hands-
“I just want to go to bed,”
Your hollow voice is a stranger’s.

Beneath foreign sheets,
Rub your arms,
guilt pools in your chest.
Apologize for the scene,
worrying him.

Knock at his cabin door,
he doesn’t answer.
leave a message:
“I’m okay.”

It’s a lie.
You know will haunt you forever.
Why do you always make a scene?

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 tells them she doesn’t like things
She wants them to read her silence,
to understand what she needs without her voice breaking.
She is petty in that way-
a quiet rebellion against her vulnerability.

It’s strange how easily she slips
into the shoes of others,
knowing their weight, their wear,
Hers, worn thin, never seem to fit anyone.
Her steps lost in the echo of crowded rooms,
where she stands, unseen, unheard.

She buries herself in work,
chasing purpose through exhaustion,
driven by the hope that someone, anyone,
will see past the walls she built
and reach for her,
before she collapses under her own silence.

Apologize
And apologize
And apologize.

Apologize not because you are sorry
Apologize so that you are always right.
so you can get sympathy
so you don’t need to take accountability
The apology is your accountability

You are surrounded by apologizers.
It is a lesson they never meant to teach you.
It is in your blood.

Yours is a lie.
To set the score straight,
They can’t say you didn’t feel bad.
You say you didn't mean to hurt them
You hide behind your words
It is always the right thing to say

When they don’t accept your apology
Face yourself.
You are the monster
The ugly truth you bury behind your kind demeanor.

Shut those who see the truth out.
Those who stay, eventually leave
You wish they would stay,
You know you are no good for them.

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.

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?

A hostage at home.
There is no reason to feel unsafe,
Yet safety seems to be hiding.

Suffocating in your skin.
Fire in your lungs that grows with every breath,
Eyes overflow threatening to flood your life
Hide away.
Find safety.
Shrink to that dark corner,
Escape.

That feeling,
Morbidly comforting
Always there.
Perched like an old friend

Longing for its warmth,
Emptiness consuming you
The harsh coldness of the world envelopes you
Within it, you burn.
You crawl away,
Trying to clear your eyes
from the smoke of lies and promises

Far from it,
The smoke follows you,
It holds strong onto your hair,
The stench a constant reminder.

How does one escape themselves?

Keep.
It.
Together.

Your mind ensnared,
Trapped like prey
In the eyes of a hungry predator
Scorched lungs
Your breath, soot.
No escaping the feeling.
Prey knows its purpose.

It is still your favorite place.

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.

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?

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.

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.

All they see is your bark and your bite,
I see the tiredness,
the hurt that you carry,
I ache to take your pain away.

You love the hand that feeds you,
It brings you pain and pleasure
Side by side they walk,
Only the pain leaves scars.
How cruel the feast the hand brings
a stomach filled with guilt,
or hollowed by shame.

Choice is the world's most dangerous poison
It is our only cure,
the very thing that keeps us alive
Maybe we are already dead
I hate that we must drink it.

I try so hard to save you.
You, the fighting dog
The loving dog
The hurting dog

Love and hate,
so intertwined they bleed into each other.
How much more must we bleed
Before we can love each other openly?

I wish those we loved
Didn’t carve forks in the roads of our lives.

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.

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.

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.

She peels herself apart,
pinches and scrapes,
chasing the illusion of smoothness—
a flawless mask she will never wear.

Sleep evades her,
lost in the endless cycle,
fingertips carving valleys into flesh,
as if pain could sculpt perfection.

She knows what she’s doing.
She’s making it better.
Or is she?

It has never made it better.
She is a slave to the mirror,
to the fleeting relief of healing—
before the itch returns,
before she unravels again.

A horse visor strapped to her face,
her world narrowed to every blemish,
every imperfection screaming for erasure.

Turn back time,
restart,
anything—
Each touch rewinds the clock.

Everyone else has porcelain skin.
They don’t pick.
They have control.

She needs to tear it off,
strip away the torment,
weep until she is clean,
until the mirror stops whispering
and her hands forget the hunger.

She watches herself crumble,
scrambling to rebuild
with the same shattered pieces.

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 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.

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?

Tangled vines creep,
Sprouting webs of lies into fragile reality,
Decaying slowly, as time weathers them away.

Reality, born from actions,
Yet so much slips beyond control—
A game with invisible rules.

Some trim the vines,
Others let them grow wild,
Consumed by the swarm of addiction.

They wither in the drought of tears,
Longing for the rain to fall
A weight they bear alone,
Left to suffer.

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.

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.

Drown it out.
Silence is the enemy
When it creeps in, everything spirals into chaos.
Cut, it feels good.

Do you really not know?
Is there truth in what they say?
Answer’s left buried.
The selfish need devours you

You pick on your skin
Regret slaps you
The aftermath is revolting.

You are furious
Furious at yourself
Your skin.

The cycle is unbreakable
Why do you do that?
Knowing the outcome only worsens things.

Cutting brings relief
Twisted comfort.
Can’t you just stop?

Shame.
Shame in mother’s eyes
Shame when makeup fails to mask it
Shame of comparison
Shame of jealousy

Control.
That’s all you need
You can take back control.
Can’t you?

Again you're knocked down
claw your way to the battlefield
“You can’t keep doing this over every little thing. This is life.”

Is that an option anymore?

Reflection
Tears burn
Trapped behind hollow eyes.

You do this?
Look like this?
Feel like this?

Problems are life
You shouldn’t complain.

But you do.
It feels good
Guilt consumes you.

Disgusting.
Just shut up
Be perfect

You are left
Pits on your face
Lines on your thighs