I want to experience friendship,
Not just one sided friendship —
A two way Loving friendship.

I yearn for a moment in life ,
Where I would not have to prove my worth—
Just to be loved.

I'm tired of reaching out,
Check-in all the time,
Fixing doors I didn't break,
Closing all loopholes,
I need a break .

I crave warmth and comfort,
From just one soul,
That would root for me ,
Just as I would

I wish I didn’t miss you—
not like this,
not in the quiet where your silence screams.
I wish I moved on like you did,
graceful,
as if love never lived here.

You don’t miss me—not like I miss you.
You don’t crave me in the hollow hours,
don’t check if I breathed you in my dreams.
You’ve unlearned the rhythm of us,
while I still hum it in the dark.

I feel stuck,
my heart in rewind
while yours skipped forward
like we never happened.

You don’t call anymore.
I know.
We’re not one.
Not us.
Not now.

But I still call.
Still text.
Still ache.

And maybe what hurts the most
isn’t losing you—
but how fast
you chose
to forget me.

I didn’t notice myself changing—
until I did.
One day,
my laugh didn’t echo the same.
My eyes
stopped believing as quickly.

Childhood slipped off
like a sweater in summer
quietly,
forgotten on a chair.

Dreams I swore I’d chase
now gather dust
in unopened folders
and fading notebooks.

The mirror grew honest.
My knees, less kind.
Time,
less patient.

I miss how time once felt—
limitless.
Like I could waste it
and it would wait for me.

Now,
every birthday feels like
a sigh I didn’t mean to let out.

But here I am—
still unfolding,
still becoming,
even if it’s slower now.

Because youth doesn’t vanish,
it just leaves quietly,
with soft hands
and no apology.

I wake,
but I don’t arrive.

I brush my teeth,
scroll my phone,
drink my thoughts
with lukewarm tea.

The clock ticks,
not like a heartbeat
but like a metronome
keeping time
for a song I no longer sing.

I answer emails,
nod in meetings,
smile where it fits.
I am present,
but not here.
Every day feels
like a copy
of a copy
of a dream I once had.

I miss surprises.
I miss meaning.
I miss the version of me
that thought this would feel
like living.

But I keep going.
One task. One sigh.
One “maybe tomorrow
I’ll feel something.”

Because even machines
need maintenance.
And I
am still
trying
to stay alive.

I used to think
home had a door.
A key.
A roof that remembered my name.

But I’ve lived in places
that never made space for my silence.
Places that knew my footsteps
but not my fears.

I carry pieces of home
in chipped mugs,
in songs that smell like childhood,
in people I no longer speak to.

Sometimes, home is a voice,
cracked with laughter
in a place I had to leave.

Sometimes, it’s a moment
sunlight on tired skin,
or the way someone says
“You can rest here.”

I’ve learned
that belonging doesn’t always mean staying,
and leaving doesn’t mean forgetting.

Home isn’t always where you were born.
Sometimes,
it’s where you stopped pretending.
I don’t know if I’ve found mine yet.
But I know what it isn’t.
And that’s something.

I pray in whispers
not because I’m shy,
but because silence
seems to listen better than people.

Sometimes,
I think God forgets
which room I’m in.
Or maybe He knocked
when I wasn’t brave enough
to answer.

The holy books say
He’s everywhere,
but some days,
I only find Him
in the ache behind my ribs.

I light candles
for things I’ve stopped asking for.
Hope burns slower
when it’s quiet.

I’ve fasted,
knelt,
cried into pillowcases
instead of altars—
but maybe they’re the same thing.

Faith, to me,
isn't certainty.
It's choosing to believe
while still bleeding doubt.

There are days you look at the mirror,
admiring yourself,
congratulating yourself
for surviving what no one saw.

But there are days—
you sink into the sorrow of the unknowns,
the weight of unanswered prayers,
the silence that grows too loud.

There are days you smile,
not because all is well,
but because you’ve learned
how to wear light even in the dark.

It’s not the heartbreak that screams.
It’s the silence that follows.
The way someone becomes a stranger
while their memories still live in your chest.
How they laugh with others the way they used to with you—
and you pretend it doesn’t sting.
You act okay.
You smile.
But inside, you're mourning someone who’s still alive,
just no longer yours.

Some days, I smile and I don’t know why,
Other days, I sit and just let time slide by.
Coffee gets cold, texts go unread,
Thoughts spinning circles inside my head.

Some days, I win little fights with my doubt,
Other days, I barely crawl out.
But I breathe, I try, I take one more stride
And that, for today, is enough on my side.

When I was small, I thought the stars
Were holes in heaven, not so far.
I used to dream with eyes so wide,
Believing magic never died.

I laughed at rain and danced with wind,
Every scar could always mend.
The world was big, but I was bold—
A heart so young, a hand to hold.

But growing up can steal the spark,
Replace bright skies with shades of dark.
You learn the truth, you feel the ache,
You see the smiles that people fake.

Still deep inside, that child remains,
Running wild in summer rains.
Whispers soft behind the noise—
The one who still believes in joys.

So if you’re lost or feeling low,
Just find the you from years ago.
Hold their hand and don’t let go—
They'll guide you home. They always know.

I grieve for my soul,
For the number of times I let people walk over it,
I grieve for my heart,
For letting people in ,
I grieve for myself,
For allowing all the garbage —
The hateful disposal,
To get inside of me,
I grieve...
Yes ,I do ,
With great pain

I wore his vest,
trading stained threads
for something that smelled
just like him.

Bare legs, quiet room—
his eyes found mine,
and I swear,
time leaned in to listen.

"Just forehead kisses,"
I whispered once,
twice—
trying to stay soft
when my heart wasn’t.

But he looked at me
like I was still his,
like the ache between us
wasn’t ready to end.

His hands at my waist,
his breath on my cheek,
the silence hummed,
sweet and weak—

And then,
before goodbye could speak…
I kissed him—
once,
long,
slow,
like we forgot what leaving meant.

People like me
don’t speak much—
we read silence
like it’s scripture,
watching the way shadows fall
on people’s faces
when truth gets too loud.

I learned early
that softness
gets mistaken
for weakness,
and honesty
for cruelty.

So I became
a quiet kind of storm—
rage in my ribs,
kindness in my palms,
resentment
sitting neatly behind my teeth.

Some days I’m tired
of pretending I don’t feel it all.
Of swallowing the world
just to keep peace
with people who
would never carry
a piece of me.

But I still stay quiet.
Because people like me
don’t speak much.
We bleed in poems.

I carry worlds within my chest,
silent storms I don’t confess.
A smile, a nod,a quiet plea,
hoping someone sees through me.

If you return,
do not knock,
the door has memorized your hands.

If you leave,
do not turn back,
the wind carries only forward.