Do you ever stop to feel the weight,

Of the shadows you cast, the lives you take?

A kingdom built on muffled cries of anguish,

Where trust dissolves, and hope will vanish.

Each stone cemented by love in vain,

A throne of thorns where you stake your claim.

You painted yourself as my guiding light,

A savior who turned my wrongs to right.

With words like honey, you first drew me near,

Promising safety, erasing fear.

But behind the mask, your motives lay,

To take, to drain, to lead astray.

Initially, you showered me with gifts and praise,

A dazzling sun in my darkest days.

With every touch, every glance, you cast a spell,

A tale of love you wove so well.

But beneath the surface, cracks would show,

A fragile facade, a dangerous glow.

Your charm was a weapon, your kindness a snare,

A puppet master feigning care.

You mirrored my dreams, reflected my soul,

Only to shatter it, and take control.

The warnings were whispers I chose to ignore,

Lost in the rush of your grand encore.

You fed me visions of perfect bliss,

Each promise sealed with a fleeting kiss.

Yet shadows lingered in your embrace,

Hints of the darkness I couldn't face.

Your love was a storm dressed as the sky,

A whirlwind of sweetness, a hidden lie.

Now I see through the glittering haze,

The way you trapped me in your maze.

Only three months in, your mask began to slip,

Your words grew sharp, your kindness flipped.

Disrespect for women laced your tone,

A twisted king on a fractured throne.

You spoke of love but mocked my name,

Fueling the fire, stoking the flame.

You spewed gaslighted truths, I questioned my mind;

I was lost in a labyrinth you’d designed.

Every tear was met with disdain,

A cycle of cruelty, a haunting refrain.

Your jokes were daggers cloaked in jest,

Cutting deep where I tried my best.

The gaslight burned, distorting the night,

Leaving me desperate to prove I was right.

I saw the cracks, but you spun the blame,

Turning my fears into a cruel game.

"You're too sensitive," you'd always declare,

As if my pain was yours to compare.

In three short months, the facade fell apart,

Revealing the void where you kept your heart.

I gathered my strength, and decided to break free,

Convinced I deserved more than your cruelty.

I packed up my heart, my shattered resolve,

Thinking this time, the problem’s solved.

But you'd follow with guilt, a masterful art,

Your tears a weapon to pull me apart.

“I need you,” you’d whisper, “I’ll change, you’ll see,”

And again, you knew I’d believe in the fantasy.

The cycle repeated, a toxic refrain,

Hope resurrected, then shattered again.

Though I slipped away, no longer in chains,

You still acted as if I wore your name.

You played my empathy like a violin,

Twisting my kindness to let you back in.

Each time I ran, you’d pull me back tight,

A push and pull, a never-ending fight.

I knew I deserved a love that was pure,

But your deception made my heart unsure.

I truly longed for relief and release,

But your guilt held me captive, stealing my peace.

I lived in your shadow, tethered by lies,

Lost in the storm you brought to my skies.

You bled me dry of my joy and my light,

Draining the self-love that gave me my fight.

I cared for you, and I loved you still,

But never in the way that real love fulfills.

It wasn’t passion, nor hearts set ablaze,

But hope in the man behind your charade.

You never loved me; your heart was a guise,

A tool to secure what your ego prized.

All you wanted was a son to bear,

Your hollow name, your family’s heir.

Your love was a cage, your plans a snare,

A selfish pursuit, devoid of care.

So delusional: You thought I’d marry you and give in to your game;

You thought I'd sacrifice myself to bolster your name.

You saw me as nothing but a willing womb,

A vessel to carry your family’s bloom.

But I was never a pawn in your selfish desire,

I was never a spark to feed your dwindling fire.

You never even cared who, just needed the deed,

A son to fulfill your inherited greed.

How foolish you were to think I’d comply,

To live for your goals, to let myself die.

You underestimated the strength I wield,

A heart unbroken, a soul unconcealed.

Your intellect faltered, your brilliance a fraud,

Revealing a coward, unworthy of laud.

You’ll never trap me; I’ve severed the ties,

Exposing the truth beneath all your lies.

Even without love or a title, you thought I was yours,

Claiming my life, locking all of the doors.

You fancied yourself a god of my fate,

Blind to the strength that would seal your state.

Your narcissism spun its tangled thread,

A throne of delusion inside your head.

But I was never yours; I broke your snare,

A hollow man, left grasping at air.

In those last six months, the truth was clear,

I saw your games and escaped your sphere.

I loved myself more with each step away,

Reclaiming the light you stole each day.

Your name, your touch, no longer define,

The woman I am, this strength is mine.

You sought to trap me, to make me your own,

But I rise unbroken, no longer alone.

I left you behind before the new year began,

To leave you in the past was my final plan.

Now 2025 blooms with self-love and grace,

A future of true love, I’m finally ready to embrace.

i’m standing at the edge,
but it’s not the fall
i’m thinking about.

it’s the emptiness
that calls to me—
soft, persistent,
a shadow whispering
i’m not enough here.

it’s not wanting to die,
just wanting to know
what it would feel like
to be somewhere
without this weight.

maybe i just want to
know what it’s like
to stand there
& not feel
so lost.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

you walked through the fire
& lived to tell the tale—
but now,
the smoke
still clings to your lungs,
& every breath feels
like a battle
you never asked to fight.