I want to believe in steady things,
but even my own reflection changes
when I look too long.
Are you here?
Do you love me?
Will you stay?
I ask without asking,
watching for the answer
in the way your hands move,
the way your breath hesitates before a word.

I know I feel too much,
ask too much,
but the silence between us is louder
than anything I could say.
So I fill it.
With words, with fear, with love—
all spilling over,
all too much,
all at once.

And still, I wonder, if it’s enough.

im getting better
but im scared for the downfall

No love is true or false
Love is love
Same for all
Sacred and pure.

It is just that
Some people love and
some only pretend.

Oh, to be loved by the writer,
Here, you become the poem you never wanted to.
You'll be her words, where she bleeds her heart to write a single line
And pours all her love into the pages.

She keeps you alive in her poems,
Where you live a life of bliss.
But if you hurt her,
The same words of hers become the knife that stabs directly into your heart.

She becomes the one to make you feel loved and hated every time she writes.
The love she has are words that burn with emotions.
And if you love her the way she does,
She becomes the kind who dies when she loves.