I kneel before Your altar, head bowed low,
While incense rises like my hidden tears.
The same hands clasped in prayer still long to hold
The one whose love fills me with holy fear.

They read Your word and tell me I'm astray,
That this sweet love corrupts my faithful heart.
But Lord, I've searched my soul both night and day -
How can such tender grace tear me apart?

The hymns still move me like they did before,
When childhood faith was simple, clean, and bright.
Now every verse becomes a closing door,
As I seek mercy in Your fading light.

Did You not form me in my mother's womb?
Did You not weave each fiber of my being?
Then why must love become my spirit's tomb,
While others find Your grace so sweet and freeing?

I love him with the pureness of the dove
That represents Your spirit from above.
Each prayer I whisper holds his gentle name -
A sacred offering wrapped in needless shame.

Still here I stay, between these ancient walls,
Where stained glass shadows dance across my face.
My love for You, for him - it never falls,
Though caught between damnation and Your grace.

Perhaps one day I'll understand Your plan,
Why some must bear this cross of love denied.
Until then, Lord, I'll love You as I can,
And keep this truth like Peter's thrice-told lie.

The sun rises anyway,

indifferent to absence,

painting the same golden squares

across your empty bed.
Coffee brews in kitchens

where your name will be spoken

in past tense for the first time,

voices breaking on the syllables.
Your phone buzzes with messages

that will never find you—

lunch plans, inside jokes,

the ordinary love of ordinary days.
Someone will have to call your work,

cancel your dentist appointment,

decide what to do with the milk

that expires next Tuesday.
The world keeps its appointments

while those who loved you learn

to navigate the sudden geography

of a life with you-shaped holes.
Your favorite song plays on the radio

in a car where someone weeps,

remembering how you hummed along,

fingers drumming the dashboard.
The morning after is not an ending—

it's the first day of everyone else

learning to carry the weight

of all your unfinished stories.

I wanted you to love me on purpose—

not by accident, not as consolation,

not because I happened to be there

when loneliness knocked at your door.
I wanted to be your deliberate choice,

the name you wrote down when asked

who matters, who stays, who gets

the careful tending of your heart.
Not the love that stumbles into being,

born of convenience or proximity,

but the love that looks and decides:

Yes. You. With intention.
I wanted to be more than circumstance,

more than the right person

at the right time in the right place—

I wanted to be the person.
The one you'd choose again

in every lifetime, every version

of this story where we meet

and you love me on purpose.
But perhaps I've learned that love

doesn't always announce itself

with grand declarations—

sometimes it just quietly decides to stay.

In porcelain skin, you seek to hide,
the stains of shame, the weight inside,
you call yourself a doll, a lamb so white,
an innocent thing, untouched by night.

But pink-hued dreams, and rosary beads,
can't wash away the secrets you've concealed,
the whispers in the dark, the choices made,
the ghosts that haunt, the paths you've strayed.

You cling to symbols of a bygone age,
a nostalgic longing for a simpler stage,
but innocence, like youth, is lost in time,
and no amount of prayer can rewind the crime.

The colour pink, a fragile, fading hue,
can't cover up the truth, the things you've been through,
the fears that grip, the doubts that creep,
the shadows that haunt, the demons that seep.

You're scared of God, of judgment's might,
of being seen, of being cast into the night,
but rosaries, like talismans, can't keep at bay,
the darkness that lurks, the fears that stray.

Oh, lamb, oh doll, oh innocent thing,
you're not as pure as you would have them sing,
you're complex, messy, multifaceted, and worn,
a tapestry of flaws, of trials, and of scorn.

I sit here in my bedroom corner,

Knees pulled tight against my chest,

Everyone thinks I'm just a kid—

They don't know about this mess.
The darkness lives inside my head,

It whispers things I can't unhear,

"You're broken, strange, and different,

No one wants you to be here."
I see the other kids at school,

They laugh and play like it's so easy,

While I'm drowning in this fog

That makes me feel so sick and queasy.
Mum asks why I won't come eat,

Dad wonders why I always cry,

But how can I explain this weight

When I don't understand it or know why?
I think I'm past the point of fixing,

Like a toy that's torn apart,

The sadness grew too big, too strong,

It's eaten up my little heart.
The counselor at school seems nice,

But she could never understand

How deep this rabbit hole goes down,

How far I've sunk into quicksand.
Maybe some kids can get better,

Maybe some deserve the light,

But I think I'm too broken now,

Too lost to ever make it right.
I'm just a kid, but feel so old,

Like hope has packed its bags and left,

And all that's left is this small voice

That whispers, "There's nothing left."

A paper cut, a minor fray,

A reason to bleed, to hurt, to sway,

From the pain of everyday life,

A desperate attempt to take control, to thrive.
A broken glass, a spilled cup of tea,

A justification to cut, to set me free,

From the anguish that I couldn't define,

A misguided attempt to soothe my mind.
But with each cut, a scar would remain,

A constant reminder of the pain,

A symbol of the struggles I couldn't face,

A cry for help, a desperate, silent pace.
One day, I hit rock bottom, it's true,

I realized that I didn't have to hurt anew,

I sought help, I found a guiding light,

Therapists, a friend, a beacon in the night.
With time, with patience, with love and care,

I learned to cope, to heal, to repair,

The wounds that I had inflicted on my skin,

The scars that would remain, a reminder to begin.
I learned to breathe, to meditate, to calm,

To find solace in the present, to let go of the balm,

I discovered that I was stronger than I thought,

That I could face my fears, my doubts, my faults.
The minor inconveniences still came and went,

But I no longer let them dictate my intent,

I chose to rise above, to find a way,

To heal, to grow, to seize a brand new day.
My scars will always be a part of me,

A reminder of the journey I've been through, you see,

But they no longer define me, no longer control,

I am free, I am healed, I am whole.

I wanted to be loved more than I wanted to breathe,

more than the pull of morning light

through curtains I forgot to close.
More than the steady drum

of my own heart,

I craved the rhythm of yours

beating close enough to feel.
I would have traded every sunrise,

every small joy—

the taste of coffee,

the warmth of blankets,

the simple fact of waking—
for just one moment

of being someone's everything,

of mattering so much

that my absence would leave

a you-shaped hole in the world.
But here I am still,

learning that love

cannot fill the spaces

we refuse to tend ourselves,

that wanting to be cherished

must begin with the person

looking back from the mirror.
The heart that beats in my chest

is not just keeping time—

it's keeping hope.