Today was heavy  
sick, tired, sad,  
while the world spun around me.  
Everything moved,  
but I stood still,  
waiting for a push,  
a nudge,  
anything to set me in motion.  

But nothing came,  
just this hollow tide  
washing over me,  
leaving me emptier than before.  

And I wanted to tell you.  
I wanted to say,  
"My day felt like a storm,"  
to hear about yours,  
to feel you near  
through words we’d share.  

But my messages sit silent,  
unread, untouched,  
like a bridge reaching nowhere.  
Maybe you don’t want to talk anymore,  
maybe I’ve become too easy to ignore.  

Still, if you’re leaving  
if this is the end  
don’t fade away like a ghost.  
Tell me goodbye.  
Because your silence cuts deeper  
than any goodbye ever could.

This might be my last poem,  
or the last of me,  
I haven’t told anyone yet,  
but I’ve lost hope, in you,  
in us,  
in what we could’ve been.  

I want to cry.  
I am crying,  
tears soaking the screen  
where I text you again,  
knowing you won’t reply.  

If only I had known  
from the start,  
I would’ve run,  
far and fast,  
but even that’s a lie.  

Because even when the universe screamed,  
"Stop! They don’t love you,"  
I silenced it.  
I rewrote its whispers,  
forcing the stars to spell,  
"They do."  

And now I’m sick,  
sick of this love  
that churns my stomach,  
a sickness that clings,  
making me want to throw it all up.  

This love is a poison,  
an ache that blooms in my chest.  
It’s killing me softly,  
with every beat of a heart  
that still beats for you.

I want to cry
But instead I write poems
And sob through them

Its a rough night tonight
My head feels like it's exploding
My asthma won't let me breathe
Along with my anxiety

My thumbs hurt like hell
I feel much less when well
Nausea cause by none other than my thoughts
Just wanting to go to sleep

I’m starting to hate writing poems.  
Not because he likes writing them,  
Or because I end up writing about him  
No.  

I hate writing poems  
Because when I write, I open up.  
And opening up means admitting  
That I’m vulnerable.  

It disgusts me to know  
That people can see me like this  
Weak, exposed, and fragile.  
So yes, I hate writing poems.  

But still, I write them.  
Because writing these poems  
Feels like the closest I’ll ever get  
To talking to him for real.  

And somehow,  
In those imagined conversations,  
I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel vulnerable.  
I just feel understood.

Each slice to my skin vomits words I could never say,  
A relief I feel in each cut I make.  
I’m in this body, a body that isn’t mine,  
But the pain I feel will forever be mine.  

I don’t want anyone knowing the things I make this body feel,  
I don’t want anyone knowing I’m actually not okay.  
Because they’ll know those smiles and laughs were fake  
But for how long have they been fake?  

I swear, I’m not okay.  
And every time I get better,  
It feels like I was not bad enough.  
So I relapse.  

Tears stream down my face every night.  
For a while, I stopped.  
But now, nothing could stop me from hurting.  

And if someone or something did,  
When they leave,  
I’ll fall even harder.  
That’s why this time,  
I hope I won’t get better.

If you asked me what I like about you,  
I’d say something simple, like, “your humor.“

Because saying,  
“I love how deep and emotional your eyes are,  
how they pull me in,  
make me want to uncover the depths of your thoughts,  
the words you’re too afraid to speak,”  
would be too much, wouldn’t it?  

Or admitting,  
“I love your lips,  
how every word they form  
makes me imagine their touch,  
the way they’d feel  
tracing paths across my skin,”  
wouldn’t that be even stranger?  

So instead,  
I settle for “your humor,”  
because it’s safer  
than confessing the truth.