If time could bleed itself open,  
perhaps I would carve the same wound again.  
You were always closing doors,  
or worse—stacking bricks into a fortress so high  
even the sun could not crawl in.  

I could whisper a thousand apologies,  
kneel, break myself into shards,  
but you—  
you would remain the same,  
a monolith of ego, cold, untouched.  
I could have handed you the whole sky,  
peeled the stars from their silk,  
but what would it matter?  

Everything was always destined for ruin.  
No road we took would have changed the ending—  
you leaving, him leaving,  
the gods watching us from their cruel balconies,  
smirking at the wreckage.  
A curse, you said.  
Do you grieve that night still?  

I tried not to raise my voice,  
but even my silence rattled the walls.  
And you—  
you only hummed back,  
a song without a name.  
We never spoke the same language,  
we were never speaking to each other at all.  

Then why did we trade hearts,  
if only to smash them on the floor?  

You knew this would hurt—  
but how much longer?  
And suddenly, I wanted to tell you:  
I am sorry.  
That night, I was rubble, too.  

You will never know how it felt  
to split my love between you both,  
to stand in the middle of a burning field,  
watching the flames choose their own direction.  

You may think me cruel,  
a villain to your tragedy,  
but you twist the knife, too—  
as if your own hands are clean.  
If you need to make me the monster,  
then do it.  
I understand.  

I always tried to understand.  
But did you?  
Did you ever try?  
It doesn’t matter.  
The bloom has rotted.  
This story has already folded itself closed.  

You are gone,  
and so is he.  

Worse than death,  
you still breathe somewhere,  
watching, haunting.  
And I—  
I have nothing left to say.  

Sometimes,  
you tell me you miss me.  
And then what?  
You are still the same ghost,  
still wearing the same skin.  
Do I need to wonder anymore?  

Sometimes,  
I hate you.  
But hate dissolves when longing enters,  
so I swallow it down.  

Because everything is different now.  
Because I have already stepped forward.  
Because I no longer live where you left me.  

And neither do you.  

I regret nothing.  
Hate me if you must.  
Despise me if you will.  
And I—  
I will do the same.  

But there is a life behind this wreckage.  
Should we feel guilty?  
Or is it just me?  
I know you never could.  

You still want to live inside some weeping romance,  
some film where sorrow is beautiful.  
But my life is made of numbers now.  
I count time, I count money.  
Love is a ghost  
I no longer chase.  

Let it die where I once loved you.  
Let it rise again—  
or not.  
Let it wander its own path,  
let it stumble into someone else’s arms.  

Perhaps I will die old and alone,  
with no friends, no bloodline,  
just silence in the room where I last exhaled.  

Or perhaps I will die young.  

Look at me—  
the only thing I think of,  
besides survival,  
is the exit door.  

How different my distractions are now.  

You swallowed every last bite of love,  
chewed it to the bone,  
let it rot in your stomach.  
And I—  
I rot with it,  
my body breaking beneath its weight.  

I need time to heal.  
Call it karma—  
for all the ways I shattered you.  
Perhaps I was your nightmare.  

I look in the mirror,  
and I think you might be right.  

When does this end?  
Do I have to wait for one of us to stop breathing?  
Must it be death that writes the final chapter?  

No.  
No more death sewn with guilt.  

I have parents,  
and I love them.  
Their death should be the one to break me.  
And yet, what is death?  
A dim cocoon where I hang in silence,  
forever suspended, dumb with nothingness?  

I am tired.  
So terribly tired.  

Oh God,  
I haven’t even read the Bible today.  
I haven’t even prayed.  

This ache is greater than the God inside me.  

Look at me—  
how foolish I sound.  

You don’t believe in God, do you?  
And yet, you curse the gods.  
As if they are the reason we could never be.  

And you know what?  
I agree with them.  

Let’s end this.  
Go.

This weight stays with me. It doesn’t sit on my shoulders—it settles deeper, somewhere no one sees. I’m not asking to die. I just want to disappear. Quietly. Slip out of reach, far from the constant buzz of people trying to fix what they’ve never really heard. They love me—I don’t doubt that. But their love doesn’t touch the part of me that hurts the most. It’s the part under the surface, where everything feels muted and sharp at once. I laugh when I need to. I answer messages. I show up. But the truth is, I barely hold together some days. I walk through noise like I’m made of smoke. The pressure doesn’t ease. It’s just there. Always. I keep going—not because I believe in anything—but because movement feels easier than explaining what stillness would mean.

This thing comes and goes as it pleases. I have no say in when or how hard it hits. It wraps itself around my chest and waits, and I carry it like a second spine. I’ve thought about leaving—not dramatically, not loudly—but fading, like dust. I think about the faces that would cry, and how they’d search for answers I don’t even have. That’s the cruelest part: I don’t know what’s wrong. I only know it hurts. If my light dims entirely, I won’t go chasing darkness. I’ll just lie still. Let the body slow. Let the thoughts stop tapping. Let time forget me. Maybe no one’s to blame. Maybe I just never found the right shape to live in. I feel safer in the world I made in my head. It’s soft. Familiar. I wish it were real. In that place, I fly. I fall. I run. I fly again. The cycle never ends, but at least it’s mine.

I have two names. One for strangers, one for those who got close. But if you call me by the name from home—the one soft with history, the one that still holds warmth—I’ll know it’s me you see. The real me. And in that moment, maybe I won’t drift. Maybe I’ll stay. So say my name. Call it like it matters. It might be the only thread I have left.

You can love me as long as you want to. For as long as I’m here. Maybe even longer, if someone else ever takes your place. But I need you to know: there’s a chance I won’t make it. Not out of choice, but exhaustion. I’m in pain. Real pain. And I don’t know how long I can stand upright with it. But if you stay—just for a little while longer—while there’s still breath in me, I’ll be grateful. Not healed, but grateful. Maybe the idea of death is the only thing that’s ever felt like relief. Like something I can finally rest inside. If you’re willing to wait with me for ten more years, maybe I’ll surprise both of us. And if you can’t, I’ll understand. That just tells me love was never a place I was meant to stay in. Even though I’ve felt it—maybe with someone before, maybe with you—my love, my almost. Please don’t be sad. Not for this. Not for me.

I wasn't  born a poet, the poet in me was born after you arrived.

A woman falls in love with the presence of man ,
A man falls in love with the absence of woman .

"Falling in love is free,
but be warned: terms and conditions apply.

You must fall for the right person, because loving the wrong one can come at a cost that's priceless – your heart, your sanity, or even your life."

*"Loyalty adapts to necessity."*

"Love is a choice, of course you'll find someone better, but you chose her, didn't you?"