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Fiona 5d
I was never chosen for belonging.
Not by the world, not by blood, not by any hand that ever touched me.
I walk among the living as an exile,
a phantom dressed in flesh,
a vessel meant only to pour itself empty
so others may drink and leave.

I am the altar and the offering.
I tear my own spine into kindling,
set myself ablaze just to keep their shadows warm.
I hand over my ruin as though it were holy bread,
because if love will not have me,
perhaps sacrifice will.

And pain;
pain has been my only covenant.
It baptized me.
It married me.
It crowns me each morning with thorns
and cradles me each night in its iron womb.
It is not a wound; it is my inheritance.
It is not a visitor; it is my god.

Yet still;
there is a howl in me.
A storm that wants to rip heaven in half.
I want to pound my fists against the firmament
until the stars rain down like glass.
I want the earth to feel the shudder of my grief,
to know that I am here,
bleeding, burning, begging..
and no one sees me.

But I know the sentence.
They will spit their verdicts like venom.
“Attention seeker.”
“Coward.”
“Spectacle.”
They will say despair is a theater,
agony a mask,
death a performance.

So I swallow the scream.
I choke on silence until it poisons me.
And I rot.
I rot in daylight,
smiling with dead teeth,
while my insides collapse like a  set on fire.

Tell me—
when does it end?
When does this body, this prison,
finally crack open?
When will my lungs sigh their last,
my skull quiet itself,
my eyes close not in weariness
but in deliverance?

I curse the sleepers in their graves.
I envy their soil, their silence, their eternal stillness.
I despise their peace even as I crave it.
Why should they rest while I remain chained,
dragging myself through the days like carrion?

I am tired.
Tired of this cursed breath,
this endless theater of pain.
I have known nothing but wounds,
and I desire nothing but the abyss.

If there is a god,
let him hear me.
If there is a hell,
let it open now.
If there is mercy in this universe,
let it be the mercy of oblivion.

Because I am finished.
And all I have ever loved,
all I have ever trusted,
all I have ever worshiped—
is pain.
Fiona Mar 15
Lilies mean I dare you to love me,
Yet no one ever dared before.
She wore unworthiness like armour,
Too afraid to ask for more.

But then their souls collided softly,
A feeling whispered, old yet new.
As if their atoms once had danced,
As if her heart already knew.

Stargazers were her favourite flowers,
Pink petals stretching toward the sky.
She never thought she’d be deserving,
Yet he brought them—without a why.

He told her love was hard to give,
That words don’t spill from heart to tongue.
But every act, each quiet moment,
Spoke of love he left unsung.

The day he gave her stargazers,
She learned that she could bloom as well.
That love was not a war to fight,
But something safe where she could dwell.

Still, they have never said the words,
Three small ones locked behind their lips.
But love is felt in all the ways
That words may falter, break, or slip.

And if they never pass through her,
Then may they come from him instead.
For she could never bear to hear
“I love you” from another’s breath.
Fiona Mar 15
The air hums with unseen eyes,
pressing against my skin like ghosts of unspoken words.
I do not know if they are real,
or if it is only my own mind feeding me these lies,
splitting at the seams,
a quiet unraveling.

I try to name this feeling,
but it slips through my fingers,
a silver thread lost in the dark.
It swells inside me,
a tide with no shore,
a song with no voice,
an echo that answers to nothing.

I fear the hollow behind my ribs,
the stranger who lingers in my reflection,
watching, waiting,
as if they know something I do not.
I fear the quiet hands of time,
folding me into something I cannot bear to be,
softly, gently, as if I won’t notice.

I dream of dissolving,
of fading like breath on a mirror,
becoming dust,
becoming light,
scattering into the arms of the cosmos,
where even sorrow turns celestial.
Perhaps there, I would not ache.
Perhaps there, I would not be.

I am tired—
of the weight in my bones,
of the ache stitched into my name,
of carrying this endless dusk
where no dawn ever follows.
Even sleep offers no escape,
only the same restless descent,
only the same hushed grief.
Fiona Mar 5
Warmth, joy, a love so true,
Emotions I never knew—
Not until my soul met yours,
Not until you opened doors.

I once believed in fairy tales,
Foolish dreams that always failed,
But then I saw the way you stare,
And found my home within your care.

You say the words don’t come with ease,
But love speaks soft in moments seized.
Your smallest acts, the way you see
The parts of me I thought unseen.

Your laughter lifts, your smile shines,
A light that feels forever mine.
I’d fight the world, I’d stand so tall,
Just to see you through it all.

I know that nothing gold can stay,
That time may steal this love away,
Yet still, I beg the stars above—
Make you my endless, only love.

For though your lips stay quiet still,
Your heart speaks louder than your will.
And though these words I dare not say,
I’ll love you more with each new day.
  Feb 19 Fiona
Meera
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
Fiona Feb 19
overflowing, my heart, a torrential tide,
Words falter, emotions I cannot confide.
To love so fiercely, yet know it will not stay,
A cruel, aching truth that will not go away.

my heart, unbridled, runs wild toward you,
defying my reason, defying what is true.
each offering of love met with barren air,
An endless void, a silence unfair.

I cry out, scream, a battle in vain,
fighting shadows absorbing the pain.
the emptiness grows, a consuming abyss,
feeding on love, on moments I miss.

oh, how I long for your warmth, your care,
but the universe answers with desolate stares.
this love is a tether, a soul bound chain,
a curse unbroken, a beautiful pain.

to love this deeply is to burn and bleed,
to nurture a flower that turns to a ****.
yet still, I cling to the ghost of your name,
bound by the fire, consumed by the flame.

a love so eternal , a wound so profound,
a curse the echoes, no solace found.
but in this despair, a paradox lies,
for even in ruin, my heart cannot disguise.

So I bear this torment, this ache, this fight,

A beacon of love in an endless night.

For though it destroys, it is a truth I can not flee:

Loving you deeply is the curse that is me.
Fiona Feb 12
She always knew who she was. A shadow at the edge of the room, a whisper drowned beneath the weight of voices louder, brighter, bolder. The outcast. The forgotten. The girl who learned too young that love came with conditions, that affection had to be earned, that visibility was a privilege reserved for those who fit neatly into the expectations of others. She was not neat. She was not easy. And so, she learned to carve away the pieces of herself that did not belong.

She became a sculptor of her own existence, chiseling away at her identity until what remained was something palatable, something acceptable. She sanded down her rough edges, trimmed away the inconvenient parts, folded herself into the empty spaces left between others’ desires. She learned to be silent when silence was preferred, to nod when agreement was expected, to smile when smiling felt like a betrayal of everything she was. It was easier that way. Safer.

But safety came at a price.

She lost herself in the echoes of others’ expectations, in the constant moulding and remoulding of her identity. She became a collection of performances, a collage of borrowed smiles and rehearsed laughter. And with each role she played, with each mask she wore, the girl she had once been faded further into the background. Forgotten, abandoned, suffocated beneath the weight of trying to be enough.

She thought belonging would fill the hollowness inside her chest. That if she just played the part well enough, if she became the version of herself that others wanted, she would finally be chosen. Finally be kept. Finally be loved.

But the belonging she found was an illusion, a fragile thing that shattered the moment she faltered, the moment she failed to be exactly what they needed. And so she was left again, standing amidst the wreckage of all the people she had tried to be, realising that in chasing love, she had abandoned the only person who had ever truly been hers—herself.

And now, she wonders if it is too late. If the girl she left behind is still waiting for her somewhere, or if she has been lost to the years, dissolved into the nothingness of trying too hard, too long, to be someone else. She stands at the edge of a life that is not her own, staring into the abyss of all she has lost, feeling the sharp edges of regret pressing against her ribs.

But in the stillness, in the emptiness, something remains. A whisper, faint but insistent. A flicker of something long buried but not yet extinguished. Not the desperate, grasping hope that once begged for others to see her, to choose her. No, this is something different.

This is the hope that maybe, just maybe, she can choose herself.

That she can reach into the wreckage, sift through the shattered fragments of who she used to be, and begin again. That she can remember the sound of her own laughter when no one else is listening, the way her soul feels when it exists untouched by expectation.

That she is not beyond saving.
That she is still here, beneath the layers of pretence, waiting to be found.
She is me. And in the depths of me, I am she.
And maybe—just maybe—that is enough.
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