I know I shouldn’t ache like this, I do,
You were never mine, not in word or vow.
Yet watching you with him, some part withdrew,
Like losing something sacred, even now.

I saw the signs, you turned your gaze away,
Laughed softer, answered slower, broke the thread.
But still I stitched my hope into each day,
Pretending you were paused—not gone, not led.

You never lied. You never called it love.
I wrote those dreams in ink you never touched.
You said “we’re friends,” and I said “close enough,”
While shaking hands betrayed I cared too much.

Now he walks with you where I once would dare,
My silence roars, and still I call it fair.

my house hums with broken wires
every plan short-circuits
before the switch clicks on

people touch me and spark,
burn their hands,
walk away smelling of smoke

so I stay ghostlike
pressing mute on every connection
watching the ceiling peel,
watching time drip slow

my body’s an old machine,
stuck between stations,
buzzing static where music should be

still, in the noise,
I keep tuning,
hoping one day
the song comes through

I break too easily.
crying at nothing,
shattering at everything.

The world calls it
too much,
too loud,
too fragile to be worth holding.

I twist in my own skin,
a mess of nerves,
a storm that never quiets.

Useless, I whisper to myself,
useless as paper in the rain,
melting, tearing,
never strong enough
to carry anything.

Even love cuts its hands on me
and I hate that,
hate that I ruin
what little I’m given.

So I play the part:
the hysterical shadow,
the one who feels too deep,
too wrong,
too endlessly broken.

But still,
under the noise,
I breathe.
Still here.
Even when I don’t know why.

The thoughts come sharp,
like glass in my hands.
I don’t fight them,
I set them down.

Ink takes the blade from me,
presses it flat
against white paper,
silent and still.

The page does not bleed,
does not break,
it only listens,
and closes quietly
when I am done.

So I leave my storms there,
bottled in margins,
tucked in a spine.

And when I rise,
my hands are lighter,
my mind a little quieter,
my skin untouched.

The house groans with my failures.
Every project collapses
like wet paper left in the rain.

People step close,
thinking they can hold me up,
but I’m a broken frame,
sharp edges,
too heavy to carry.

So I push them away.
Better they bruise at a distance
than bleed at my side.

My body won’t bargain with me either.
It runs on fumes,
bones creak like old stairs,
lungs dragging air like stones.

And still
I wake,
I move,
I make do,
inside this crooked life
that doesn’t quite fit.

No age.
No mass.
Just motion.
I do not experience time.

To me, the beginning
and the end
of the universe
are the same blink.

I have seen the inside of your eye
and the bone of a dead star,
without stopping to ask
which was which.

Crash the scene, break my frame,
We show up with all eyes on me.
Live on fire, burn the night,
two steps forward, four in the fight.

You want it, yeah, you think you do,
grip my shadow, run from truth.
Spinning wheels, pushing down,
scream it loud, nobody’s around.

Drive me mad, drive me wild,
just call me yours for just a while.
We don’t rush, we collide,
messy hearts we try to hide.

Tryna trash my mask, I’m a poster-boy,
blades and ink, but you love me because
I run, I fall, I scream, I play,
chasing the ghosts that won’t stay.

I keep rehearsing the ending
in my head.
Curtains drawn,
silence after.

The thought comes easy,
like muscle memory,
like checking the lock twice
before leaving.

I sketch exits
on the margins of days,
erase them,
then draw again.

But each time,
something small holds me,
a crack in the wall
letting in morning,
a voice on the line,
the sheer weight of unfinished hours.

So I stay.
Unsteady, unwanted by myself,
but still here.
Still rehearsing,
never closing the scene.

Life keeps striking,
one blow after another,
until my ribs feel hollow,
my spirit bruised.

And then it comes back,
that thought.
Quiet at first,
like a shadow in the corner.
Then louder,
pressing against my chest.

I wrestle with it.
I want to live,
to hold on,
to find a way through,
but that thought
keeps circling back,
like a tide that refuses to rest.

No one sees the battle.
No one understands
the weight of a war fought
in silence.

So I write it down,
trap it in ink,
so it won’t devour me whole.

I am still here,
not because it’s easy,
but because I keep choosing
life,
again,
and again,
even with that thought
always at the door.

You touch me like a whisper meant for no one,
Soft, fleeting, fading when the world looks away.
I reach, not to hold, but to be held,
In the quiet ache where your silences stay.

Would you notice if I disappeared in parts?
If I cracked my ribs just to make you look back?
Would you still see me in bruised silhouettes,
Or am I just the echo you never unpacked?

My mother taught me how to be still for others,
How to swallow storms and call it peace.
But I am not a pond, love. I am the sea,
And you sail me blindfolded, begging for ease.

You cried at the lake, and I broke with you.
Every bone in me folded like paper in rain.
I said the wrong thing. God, I always do,
But I’d drown a thousand times to lift your pain.

At night, there's a voice, not mine, not yours,
Singing about dancers and distance and fate.
It tells me I’m a line without a hook,
A verse unfinished, a heart too late.

You say I’m sweet, you say I’m kind.
But only when no one hears.
And I let you, every time,
Because rejection is better than disappearing.

So if you ever return, soaked and shaking,
Know that I am still standing where the tide breaks,
Not waiting, not hoping, just aching
In the place where your love never wakes.

I loved you in the hush between two sighs,
Where glances flickered, stars that lost their flame.
Your voice, though gentle, bore no soft replies,
No echo shaped itself around my name.

I offered verses, filaments of grace,
Fine bridges spun from breath and tethered fire,
But you, like frost that veils a summer's face,
Withheld the warmth my trembling hopes required.

You did not break me. No, you were too kind.
Yet kindness, cold, can cut like polished steel.
A smile, misplaced, can hollow out the mind;
And silence teaches wounds too deep to heal.

So I retreat. Not bitter, but erased—
A violin, unheld, in silence cased.
Still strung with song that none will understand,
Still turned toward you, an unanswered command.

I give everything I have
and it still falls short.
Like throwing rope into the sky,
expecting it to catch a star.

The people who care
always stumble here,
as if my presence
changes the ground beneath them.

I tell myself it’s safer
to keep them outside the blast radius,
to let loneliness
be the price of sparing them.

Meanwhile, my body
keeps writing its slow warnings
in pain,
in fatigue,
in the quiet betrayals
of flesh and bone.

Yet some part of me
keeps standing,
keeps trying,
even with gravity
pulling harder every day.

nothing works right here
doors swell shut
lights flicker out

I give it all,
still feels half-finished
like a song cut mid-chorus

the people I love
leave limping
like I’m bad luck
that rubs off

so I turn cold,
keep distance,
wear silence like armor

meanwhile my body
is a clock with missing gears,
ticks, stalls,
ticks, stalls

still, I drag forward
through the static,
through the rust,
through the weight

The thought returns,
like a shadow leaning across the room.
It whispers endings,
neat and final,
like closing a book.

But writing it down
is lighter than holding it.
The page doesn’t flinch.
The words don’t judge.

And here I am still,
breathing through the ink,
choosing once more
to leave the last line open.

He is to me what kings are to their knight,
Who grants me trials that shape and make me strong.
He is the dawn that banishes the night,
Who gives me truth when all the world feels wrong.

He is a compass when I lose my way,
A steady hand when storms begin to rise.
His words are stars that help me not to stray,
A spark of fire beneath the cloudy skies.

He is to me the book the wise revere,
Each page a path to knowledge deep and wide.
He speaks, and thoughts long buried reappear,
A tide of wonder I no more can hide.

In every lesson, he bestows me grace—
A guide, a torch, the sun upon my face.