Sixteen, a sound I’ve always loved,  
A number rare, not often thought of.  
It whispers Lebanon in its quiet glow,  
A place, a feeling, only I know.  

You said it was odd, how odd, indeed,  
That made it more beautiful, unique to me.  
Not many love it, and that’s why I do,  
Sixteen felt mine, until it led me to you.  

On the field, you wore it, jersey so bright,  
Sixteen on your back, catching my sight.  
Was it a sign, a whisper from the sky?  
Telling me to love you, to not question why?  

But you don’t seem to see how much I care,  
Or maybe you do, but love isn’t there.  
Our worlds are apart, like earth and moon,  
Yet sixteen binds us, a secret tune.  

Was it chance or fate? I’ll never be sure,  
But loving you feels both odd and pure.

Four months, 27 days ago,  
I said I'd stop.  
I lied.  

The blade came back,  
old friend,  
old habit,  
old scars splitting open like  
they never left.  

The dark thoughts knock,  
but this time,  
they're coming in  
and I won’t show them the door.  

I’ll print my poems,  
every line about you,  
make a book,  
hand it to her,  
say, “Publish this. Give it to them.  
They should know what they meant.”

On my last day alive,  
I’ll tell you I love you.  
Then I’ll go home,  
write my final poem,  
leave it on my bed,  
and climb up,  
one last smoke on the roof,  
post a picture,  
and jump.

Call me insane,  
call me crazy,  
forty poems for the same guy  
who does that?  
But try being in my head.  

I can’t stop thinking about him.  
Nothing helps.  
At first, writing these poems  
was my escape,  
my calm in the storm,  
but now  
he’s the storm,  
the calm,  
the everything.  

Even in my sleep,  
he’s there.  
I dream of him.  
I dream of the poems  
I write for him.  

And every time I hear his name,  
my heart tightens
like someone’s squeezing it  
until I can’t breathe,  
like he’s stolen my reason,  
like I can’t think,  
can’t be  
without him.

Today, I stop loving you.  
Today, I move on
that's what I told myself.  

But the truth sticks,  
like gum on my shoe,  
like your name in my throat.  

I realize now,  
you might not love me,  
and if you do,  
the way you show it is twisted,  
messed up.  

You don’t love me.  
I know that now.  
Not after the poem you showed me,  
the one that looked like love,  
but wasn’t.  

I felt hurt  
because I loved you.  
The poem I shared?  
That was about you.  
But I never said it.  

Now my friends tease me.  
Every time he sees me,  
he screams your name,  
and my heart tightens.  
It reminds me
I still love you.

Was it casual when I showed you my poem?  
It was not.  
Not many get to see that part of me,  
The part I keep hidden,  
Buried deep.  

Writing those poems only makes me love you more,  
Each word a quiet confession,  
Each line a reminder
This love is not like the others.  
I’ve never felt this way before.  

The day I tell you my feelings,  
The day you tell me you don’t feel the same  
That day will be the end of me.  

Three years I’ve loved you.  
Three years of silence,  
And yet not speaking to you  
Has never stopped me from thinking of you.  

I won’t tell you I love you.  
Not yet.  
Hoping my feelings might change,  
Hoping yours might too.  

But I’m not ready to hear those words  
“I don’t love you.”  
I already know you don’t,  
But until you say it,  
It’s not my reality.  

So I will wait for you.

Am I ugly?  
I ask the mirror,  
but its silence cuts deeper  
than any blade ever could.  

Other guys say I’m pretty  
soft smiles, lingering stares,  
but his eyes  
are the only ones  
I care to meet.  

Why doesn’t he see me?  
Why doesn’t he want me?  
Is it my face?  
My laugh?  
The way I look away  
when he catches me staring?  

He doesn’t love me,  
but I can’t stop loving him.  
His name is a ghost  
haunting my thoughts,  
a shadow following me  
everywhere.  

Maybe I’m not ugly,  
but to him,  
I’m invisible.  
And somehow,  
that hurts more.

I wish I didn’t care.  
I wish I didn’t care so much.  
I wish I didn’t care at all.  

I wish  
I wish for too many things.  
Is it because I wish too much?  
Or because I care too much,  
Feel too much,  
Fall too much?  

Am I wrong for that?  
Was my mold broken  
When they were making me?  
Or am I just broken?  

Maybe I wasn’t meant to fit,  
Wasn’t meant to bend or blend.  
Maybe I was made to feel it all—  
Every edge, every crack,  
Every shattering,  
Every stitch pulling me back.  

If my mold was broken,  
Then I’m not a mistake.  
I’m just something  
The world wasn’t ready to make.