Ballerina creases – a ballad of broken pieces,
Break me down in parts, where pain still leases.
My past lives on in inches, bruised by time,
Dancing round the reasons, moving out of line.

Features of me—like a painting left incomplete,
Still breathing, still dreaming, still finding my feet.
Out in the field, trying not to fall behind,
One step ahead of a runaway mind.

Stable thoughts, but the engine’s wild—
Horsepower pulling my inner child.
A wagon of dreams, heavy with code,
I’m stalling, I’m shifting—about to load.

Don’t sell your soul or cheapen your goal,
Even the prettiest dreams can be sold.
We don’t own it all, yet still owe it all—
Through rain and snow, we rise, we fall.

Chasing myself through a frozen road,
Where passion burns, and a runny nose shows.
They can’t see breath—or the vision you hold,
But seeing it yourself is what helps you go bold.

You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
  balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
  The storm I drink from.
    The wound I keep pressing,
      just to feel something again.

While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
  than in heaven—
and sometimes,
  I think your mouth is the closest
  thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
  We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
  but because it delays
       the end.

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.

Hopeless romantic—I want to cry. Feelings pressed so deep, they die
quiet deaths between sighs. I don’t know what you see in this eye—a
dim-lit portrait, painted in the bruises of love dye. Questions coil
around my spine, but the heaviest one hisses: “Who the **** am
I?”

When we kiss, let’s make it sacrament—a whispered heresy, tongues
speaking in wet prophecy. But you don’t kneel for any father. You’ve
made altars from broken men with daddy-issue blueprints. And I—
just another one trying to fix what wasn’t mine to mend.

My fingertip—a brushstroke on your bitten lip, painting the hunger
before it slips. You wear love like fingerprints around your throat,
scarred tender from where I once held your breath like a prayer.

You're unsure of yourself, but I make you a shoreline—soft enough to
land on, wild enough to drown in. You become my bay, my mouth’s
favorite practice ground. My wreckage. My beach.

Each kiss tastes like searching for sin between your teeth—warm, wet
confessions we never speak. A shared gasp for air in the ache between
moans, as if pleasure could ease the pressure clawing beneath our
bones.

Would we love longer, or be like everyone else, hoping to just ****
better? Could your heart even measure what my hands now own?
Your body echoes beneath sweat-glazed skin, like a haunted song I
still hum. The feelings crawl, then collapse—pulling me under. Like
a dream that bites back. One that begs to be real. But this love has
only a few moments to taste that real.

Crowded foresight —  
      thoughts stacked sky-high,  
     cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.  

              Out of mind,  
           out of sight…  
     yet somehow, I keep seeing  
     the better days of my life  
       skimming the edge  
        of a hopeful smile.  

                 That smile —  
          soft, unspoken —  
           given with time,  
        drawn from deep thoughts  
            folded in silence.  

                    . . .  

         Any life worth seeing —  
       any better version of me —  
    is shaped by what I’m willing  
          to put light on.  

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.

The sky is falling—
ashes in slow motion,
  raining smoke laced with doubt.
I’m trying to figure things out – trapped inside
   of my mind, trying to map a way out.
Time wears you down like a borrowed face.
Money races laps around your mind—
  and we’re all so deeply
    invested in the chase.

I think locomotive thoughts—
   every train of thought heavier than the last—
but somehow, I keep losing track of time.
But what is time,
  if not something that’s never mine?
We spend every second like a dime—
  but not every moment
    is worth the time.

I dress up for someone else’s moment,
tailor my soul to suit their life—
wearing joy like it’s rented, hoping the fit feels right.
Every mistake I remember from yesterday
  becomes a brushstroke in the picture I paint today—
a portrait of someone better
  hanging up in my frame of mind.

And maybe, just maybe,
there lies the real way
to fit in.

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes
     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.

Sinking tears –

 feelings don’t fall,
  they crash
   like glass hearts
    meeting pavement.

Your chest?
 A sunken place.
  No bra strap to hold it up –
   just white linen,
    innocent for a moment,
      until it slips
       in front of eyes
       like mirrors
        reflecting
         every scar
          painted on your skin.


Sandcastle kisses,
 built soft –
   fragile –
     on lips that no longer
       believe in forever.

Yet you speak
 like royalty,
   saying boldly:
    “Love me for what I am –
     not just who you think I’ve been.”

Not a princess.
 Not a saviour.
  A mess.
   A wreck.
    A fallen queen.

Wearing her cracked gold crown
 like a forgotten joke –
   that still makes your heart ache
     when it returns
      in the quiet between memories.



Bones for time –
 you pick at every hour
   like it owes you something.
    Tick.
      Tick.
        Snap!

The clock breaks
   where your mind does.

You may live in the day,
   but you breathe
     in the night.

Freer beneath moonlight,
  where shadows stop asking questions –
   and silence
    finally listens.