The comet ☄️ of my soul shatters the sky,
A river of fire, burning where love once lay.
I am the one you could not hold,
The shadow cast by your golden day.
Carpe Diem murmurs in the hollow night,
Yet I remain, a stone, unmoved, undone.
On this sofa, the silence sings,
The echoes of your voice a fading sun.
Behind my eyelids 👀, colors clash and break,
A kaleidoscope of pain only absence can make.

She thought love would age like wine,
Smooth and dark, a holy sign.
Gentle whispers, velvet skies,
But the truth came wrapped in lies.

The shadows fell, they did not ask,
His voice a sermon, a shattering mask.
His absence carved, sharp and deep,
A wound that woke her in her sleep.

She drank the night to drown his face,
To forget the silence, to erase the space.
But the glass broke sharp against her hand,
And the blood sang truths she couldn’t stand.

Healing came like a thief in the rain,
Soft as ash, a balm for pain.
A knock at the door, a touch so kind,
An old friend’s voice she thought she'd left behind.

She stopped the drinking, stopped the fall,
Her laugh returned, a hymn in the hall.
Her wrinkles spoke of battles won,
Each line a prayer to the rising sun.

Now she writes by a candle’s glow,
Her words are rivers, strong and slow.
She meets her gaze in the looking glass,
A woman who rose from the broken past.

She lifts her glass to the evening light,
To the love she lost, to the endless fight.
Bold and unbreakable, she stands alone,
Aged like wine, her spirit her throne.

Pure white whispers fall,
soft embrace on black branches—
Winter's breath lingers.

Enormous oak stands,
silent witness to the peaks,
shadows blend with light.

Between two giants,
snow and silence weave their song,
timeless, cold, serene.

Psychedelic swirls in the womb of night,
The ghosts rise, hungry, for the sacred rite.
He touched her forehead, soft as a sigh,
Retracing memories where lost stars lie.

"You are misplaced," he murmured low,
"Led astray by the rivers' flow."
Her mind unravels, a fragile thread,
Dancing now with the living dead.

The violin weeps, it shatters the void,
A somber hymn both sharp and cloyed.
"Twirl for me," he said, "don’t fear the flame,
The watchers are here—they know your name."

The ghosts surround in a velvet trance,
Eyes like embers, they burn, they dance.
Their touch is smoke, their gaze a maze,
A fiery mirror of forgotten days.

Lost in the rhythm, the void in bloom,
Spinning through the door of doom.
She feels the pull of the stars' decay,
A psychedelic hymn to lead astray.

The night hums low, a growling beast,
Its jaws wide open for the soul’s feast.
He takes her hand—she feels the spark,
A haunting waltz through endless dark.

"Rise," they chant, "to the other side,
Lose your fear, let the moment abide."
The ghosts dissolve with the breaking dawn,
But their song lingers long after they’re gone.

Wine flows,
cheese is sliced,
Hams and pâté grace the board,
Cards fan in warm hands.
Records spin, voices collide—
Sunday’s hearth,
food, and hearts burn.

We grip the day like a child grips
a parent’s hand,

trusting the pull forward,

but night comes, dark and wet,

a mouth of fears opening wide—

we fight inside it, each breath a battle,

and by morning, we are raw,

but whole, stitched together by the sharp

thread of surviving ourselves.

Beneath the moon’s cold, watchful eye,
A tree stands silent, wounds run deep.
Its bark is scarred; its sap won’t dry,
For every name, it’s bound to keep,
A curse etched there for souls to weep.

The lovers carved with thoughtless blade,
A fleeting vow, a whispered kiss.
Now shadows dance where dreams once played,
And roots ache for a simpler bliss,
While haunted whispers twist and hiss.

Its leaves grow heavy, dark with grief,
Each scar a wound that will not fade.
No time nor sun brings it relief,
For memories cruelly invade,
And turn its strength to ghostly shade.

Yet still it stands, though bent and worn,
A bleeding shrine to fleeting youth.
Its rings hold tales of hearts forlorn,
Each scar a fragment of the truth,
A silent ode to love’s unsooth.

Oh, bleeding tree, what stories keep?
What specters linger in your boughs?
Do ghosts of lovers dream or weep,
While nature kneels in solemn vows?
Your endless scars, their endless plows.

Neither fight nor flight—
I am a hostage of the chemicals,
the shrink’s hand-me-down lullabies:
wake, smile, sleep, cry—
a parade of puppets on taut strings.
Not a thread of shame,
no blush to mark the trespass of my will.

Balance, he says, is a tightrope act.
Obedience hums like a steady drumbeat.
But the body—
oh, the body knows nothing of balance,
only the edge, the gaping maw of almost.
Painkillers slip into my pocket like coins for Charon—
companions for the journey into this fabricated calm.

I sit in the shadow of myself,
watching the rehearsals of humanity:
the mimicry of laughter,
the choreographed tears,
the steady gaze of eye contact—a ritual I master.

Release, he says.
And I, ever the good patient,
release into the artificial tide,
the undertow of someone else’s control.

Still, the body whispers of rebellion,
a quiet ache that longs for rawness,
for the chaos that keeps the blood
pulsing,
real.

She turned her face,
smooth as the moon’s cold arc,
away from the storm in my arms,
the tempest she refused to see.
The scars climbed my skin—
rungs on a ladder of grief,
each carved line a scream
swallowed by the vast, uncaring sky.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said,
her voice, brittle as dry reeds,
fragile in its tight restraint.
The bitter breath of black coffee,
the smoky veil of cigarettes,
stood between us,
a wall, a barrier of indifference.

But I,
I called to life the crimson river,
its rush fierce, its truth undeniable.
Words failed where the blade did not,
its edge a preacher, sharp and sure.
Joy, sorrow, despair—
all bled the same,
their stories painted on my skin.

Then came the pills,
like stones pressing the ocean floor.
Heavy salvation, they dragged me deep,
into waters where I was no one—
a shadow bloated with silence.
Dreams came, sharp as talons,
tearing through the darkened halls
of my restless soul.

“You’re nothing now,” she said,
her words a whip with pity’s sting.
“No one will love what you’ve become.”

But oh, the demons loved me well,
their hunger unyielding,
their feast endless.
They claimed my broken pieces,
traded one vice for another,
devoured the echoes of who I was.

And now, she is quiet.
The night stretches on, long and lean,
its silence a river where I wade alone,
listening to the hollow song
of their eternal feast.

For it was not anger but sorrow—
At the Abandonment—laid bare—
The dandelion—blown to pieces—
Wishes scattered—everywhere.

She could hear their Thoughts—their Fears—
A chorus—soft—yet sharp—
She wished to hide inside herself—
A hollow—without a harp.

Self-medication’s quiet needle—
Addiction’s velvet glove—
She yearned for Home—but found illusion—
A mirage—far from Love.

She stared into the blank horizon—
Falling—farther still—
A call for asylum—ghostly scribes—
No cure for her ill will.

They stopped questioning the Overdose—
What happens—must occur—
We take precautions—but in the end—
The void—we will still endure.

He lied—his promises dissolving—
No Trust resides in Truth—
Sabotaged—her fragile Being—
An existence—gone uncouth.

The grace of a lone sparrow falters—
Circles—spiraling near—
Yet never reaching—centers hollow—

The dusty yellow of sticky nectar
smears her face, opalescent,
the kind of glow you’d see in a dream
before it turns nightmare.
He sits across from her,
ambition cracked like the dry riverbed
of his father’s voice,
leaking out into the room,
spilling his senses in a game of tag
he will never win.

Their conversation is a war—
drones buzz overhead,
their bodies weightless as insects,
but the gore is real:
blood on the walls,
blood in the silence between
one bitter word and the next.
What did they fight for?
Pride? A crumb of it?
The thing dissolves like sugar
in a child’s fist—
sticky, stained,
but gone.

And at the end of it,
only children remain.
Not the ones they bore,
but the ones they still are:
small, angry,
married to a promise
no one ever explained.

They imagine pastures,
green as forgiveness,
wet as birth.
But the watering is endless,
the grass never grows.

I let him speak,
his words uncoiled like smoke
in the quiet room,
each sentence a serpent
wrapping itself
around the soft throat of the night.

He spoke of boredom,
of voices like dead birds
falling from the trees,
of his hands
searching the air
for the tender pillars of life,
and squeezing,
until silence became a god.

I listened uneasily,
my breath a quiet river,
my heart a stone
sinking into its depths.
His voice brushed against my skin,
and I held it,
like holding a flame
bare-handed.

Then he stopped.
The silence cracked.
His fingers felt my pulse—
a stillness I could not hide.
It betrayed me.
But I, too,
held his hand,
offering my quietness
as a gift,
a wall,
a mirror.

Now I wake in another room,
safe from his dreaming.
But the night carries his voice,
a tide that laps against
the shore of my memory.

Did I save myself?
Did I save him?
Or are we both
adrift in the dark sea
of what was left unsaid?

The room sagged, a heartbeat heavy with rosewood and dusk,
the kind of smell that reminds you of loss before it even arrives.
She moved like a dream someone forgot to finish—
feet barely touching the ground,
a laugh sharp enough to cut the silence,
and soft enough to leave it bleeding.

A single candle. One flame. One moment.
The wax slid down in slow-motion,
ancient rivers carving a map nobody could follow.
She closed her eyes and blew,
and the world coughed, staggered,
like a drunk trying to remember the way home.

The dark had teeth that night.
Her tears carried galaxies—
tiny universes wrapped in the memory of something
too big to name, too loud to quiet.
Each scar was a story;
each story a secret she’d never speak aloud.
Abandonment wasn’t just a shadow;
it was a shadow that knew her name.

Angels didn’t wear halos here.
They had fists. They broke doors.
They screamed louder than the thoughts in her head,
and for a moment—just one—
she thought about stepping off the edge.
But the edge folded itself into something softer,
like rain dissolving into the ocean—
gone, but never really leaving.

She drifted then.
The river was black velvet, and she was the needle,
slipping beneath the surface of her own reflection.
Mirrors stared at mirrors stared at mirrors,
each one laughing a little quieter than the last.
The serpents in her veins stretched lazy and golden,
curling around her like a lullaby that forgot how to end.

She stood naked in that moment—
not in body, but in soul.
Womanhood wasn’t a choice; it was a verdict.
It wrapped her in smoke and shadow,
a shroud that smelled like desire and regret.
The world didn’t notice. It never does.
She disappeared slowly,
a ripple in the fabric of something too big to understand.

Her voice was a whisper woven from silk and static.
It found him. Only him.
His name hit the air like a match on gasoline,
burning white-hot and hollow.
She unraveled in the glow—
her edges ash, her center a flicker
fighting to stay lit.

Morning didn’t rise; it crept.
The air tasted like regret and cigarettes.
Dust floated in the sunlight,
a million little infinities caught
between forgetting and forgiving.
Love lay there, cold and still,
its mask cracked just enough
to show the liar beneath.

beneath the cross wept,
a bird brushed by crimson grace,
marked by sacred blood.

in its humble breast,
echoes of a holy grief,
forever it soars.

The air shimmered, alive with its own trembling pulse,
and I felt—yes, I felt—the veil tear, thin as gossamer,
wet with dew and dreams.
The mushrooms, small and unassuming, lay in my palm
like a secret too heavy for words.
I ate them,
and the world unfolded,
petal by petal,
a flower blooming backward into itself.

It was not the self I sought—
not at first.
No, it was the taste,
the salt of knowing that clung to my tongue,
sharp and metallic,
like the tang of stars fallen into the sea.
The ground, steady and loyal all my life,
buckled and sighed,
and I slipped,
I drowned—
oh, willingly I drowned!—
into the land of fevered dreams,
where shadows wear faces
and light bends to its own whims.

The Self—what is it but a vapor,
a mist rolling out to sea,
always receding,
always somewhere else?
I reached for it—
a hand outstretched, trembling,
fingers brushing its edge—
but it dissolved,
scattering into the sky,
a thousand tiny stars.
"Come," said the stars,
each one a voice,
each one a wound.

Time folded in on itself,
its moments dripping like candle wax,
melting, melting—
and there was Truth,
naked as a child,
unflinching.
She beckoned,
her eyes sharp as glass,
her mouth full of salt.
"Do you dare?" she asked.
"Do you dare taste what cannot be untasted?"

And I—oh, I—
drank her down,
her bitterness, her fire,
until my tongue burned with her name.
What was the Self then,
but a shadow cast by flame?
A ghost dancing in the ash of knowing?

Still, I search.
Still, I wander beneath the sky,
its stars like open wounds,
its silence like a hymn.
And when I find myself—if I find myself—
will I recognize the face?
Or will I merely see
the salt-streaked reflection
of the sea I once drowned in?

Beneath the weight of the moment,
fractured seconds linger like echoes,
etched into the hollows of my mind.
Most things dissolve,
consumed by the hungry tides of forgetting,
but not this—
not the way you made me feel.

Small.
Insignificant.
The air stolen from my lungs
as life unraveled, thread by thread.
I lay there,
the world shrinking,
your gaze an avalanche,
your silence a knife.

It wasn’t the darkness that stayed—
it was the sharpness of being
discarded, diminished, erased.

I will not forget.
The universe has ways
of balancing its scales.
And when it does,
may you feel what I felt—
every fragment of it.

I am the jaded *******,
not the one cradled by silver spoons,
but a child of the streets,
mud-caked and angel-forsaken.
Guardian wings flap for the golden ones,
while the rest of us crawl,
bloodied, broken,
dragging our shadows into the abyss.

"You won't see me again,"
she whispered, a ghost of smoke,
her cigarette smothered in the ashtray's grave.
Her footsteps faded like a forgotten hymn,
leaving me alone
with the scent of ashes and endings.

Another one down,
another lost pilgrim,
another candle snuffed before the altar.
The floor drank his blood,
the walls sang dirges,
no resurrection for the weary,
no happy endings for the ******.

Tears poured,
anointing the sullied Madonna,
her hands heavy with despair,
her womb cradling a violent hope.
The Christ-child screams
before the world rejects him too.

Where are the chosen ones?
Where is the light they promised?
The night laughs,
a cruel lover’s embrace,
and I stumble, jaded,
into the arms of the void.

he presses (deliberate) each button,
soft as a whisper, sharp as a pin,
a smile that cuts, (the blade of him)
& she, unravels / unspools /
into noise.

you always, he says.
you never, he sighs.
his words,
a clever parade,
a firework bloom
of gaslighted skies.

her patience,
a thread—pulled taut, then frayed,
then gone.
and when she speaks (oh, the daring of it),
he shapes her syllables into storms,
ties her anger to the wind—
“see how you are?”
he grins.

she becomes the thunder (his storm, his proof).
her breath, a chaos of no escape,
her voice,
a house he burned down
but still blames
her for the flame.

until she folds her wings
into the cage he built—
silent. quiet. small.
not for lack of fight
but for lack of air.

and still,
his lies bloom sharp (oh, his garden of blame).
his hands, gentle knives,
carve her into someone she doesn’t know.
& he names her crazy,
wraps her in words like straightjackets
until she forgets
her name.

but even now,
her silence waits,
a seed beneath the ash.
her roots will remember—
one day,
she will grow back.

I am tired,
like the tide—dragged forward, pulled back,
never still long enough to feel whole.
The sheets, tangled like seaweed,
hold the stories of nights I’d rather forget,
their salt-stained whispers clinging to my skin.
I wish for something small,
something I could cup in my hands—
a moth, a moment,
a bit of light to carry me through.

I have worn too many costumes.
The brave daughter, the loyal friend,
the woman who keeps her head high,
even when the sky presses down.
But I am tired of rehearsals.
Tired of fitting myself into frames
that cut me at the edges.
It’s hard to keep smiling
when your reflection keeps slipping
out of its skin.

No one tells you how to explain
the kind of broken that doesn’t come
with instructions. No subtitles for the father
who walked away like a stranger,
or the mother who tried—
God, how she tried—
but her hands were already full
of her own crumbling foundation.
Some lessons are too heavy
for the tongue.

I am falling,
not like the movies—no slow-motion grace—
but fast and heavy,
the way rain hammers the earth,
each drop praying it won’t drown.
I need arms that know the language of holding—
friends, lovers, strangers
who can take this weight
and turn it into something softer.
A raft, a lullaby, a way through.

Let me rest. Let me lay it all down.
Let the fight leak out of me like ink,
disappearing into the sheets, the walls,
the dark. I don’t need much—
just a quiet room,
a heartbeat steady enough
to remind me I am not alone.
A chance to breathe
without my chest caving in.

But tonight, it’s just me—
the bed too big, the wish too small,
hovering like a bird
who doesn’t know how to land.