She drifts through her days, caught in an endless search for something she cannot quite name. A love she imagines as something distant, fleeting—something outside of herself, waiting to be discovered. But in her quiet seeking, she does not see what the world reflects back to her, what the winds carry in their gentle embrace, what the stars try to whisper when she gazes up at them with eyes full of wonder: she is love, in its truest, purest form.

It is there in the way her laughter fills the spaces between people, like sunlight breaking through the clouds on a heavy day. It is in the way her eyes soften when she listens, truly listens, as though each word spoken to her is a gift she treasures. It is in the way she tends to the small and forgotten things—watering a wilting plant, feeding a stray animal. Love flows from her so effortlessly, so instinctively, that she forgets to notice it.

Her spirit shines in ways she cannot yet see. It is a light not loud or demanding, but steady, like a distant nebula glowing in the vast expanse of the universe, illuminating even the darkest corners. She looks for love in fleeting places—other people, distant dreams, imagined futures—not realising that the very thing she aches for has always lived within her.

For every time she has reached out to console another, for every moment she has paused to appreciate the gentle beauty of the world, for every word of encouragement she has whispered into someone else’s storm, she has been love in motion. And yet, she questions her worthiness, wondering if she is enough. She chases after the feeling of being seen, not understanding that she is already the reflection of everything she seeks.

There is no love greater than the way she exists—whole, raw, and true. There is no beauty brighter than the way she moves through the world, carrying love in every step, scattering it like seeds she does not even realise she is planting. One day, perhaps, she will stop searching and finally stand still long enough to feel it: the quiet, unwavering truth that she is, and has always been, more than enough. She is the love she has been searching for all along.

There is a particular sorrow in retreating to sleep, not for rest, but to escape the sound of your own thoughts. In that fragile fall into oblivion, you feel your heart splinter, a quiet and deliberate crack that leaves you breathless. It is here, in this liminal space, that the weight of solitude presses hardest. Not loneliness—no, not the simple absence of others—but solitude, profound and unyielding, like a shadow draped over your soul.

You sit alone in the muted glow of your room, a cup of tea nestled in your hands, the steam spiralling upward like an unanswered prayer. The silence is absolute, punctuated only by the murmur of your own heartache. The world beyond these walls feels impossibly distant, as though you have been exiled to some forgotten corner of existence. And you start to wonder how much longer?

How much longer until you discover a space where you truly belong, a space where your soul does not feel like a stranger in its own skin? How much longer until this invisible prison dissolves, and you are free to breathe without the weight of longing pressing against your chest? You give love so easily, so earnestly, pouring it out like an endless river. Yet, it returns to you in drips and drops, fleeting and flimsy, never enough to quench the ache.

Is this my purpose? To exist in this silence, accompanied only by the echo of my own thoughts? Am I destined to feel this hollow ache forever, to carry this heaviness until the end?And if this is the truth—if this ache is eternal—then I beg, let it cease.

Perhaps in absence, I will find what eludes me in presence. Perhaps only then will the world take notice of the space I leave behind. Perhaps only then will the love I long for bloom in the hearts of those who once overlooked me.But what a bitter irony, to be loved only in your absence, when you can no longer feel its warmth.

And so, I sit in this endless night, questioning the shape of my existence, wondering if I will ever find the belonging I so desperately seek. The tea grows cold, but the ache stays warm, curling itself around me like an unwelcome lover. How much longer? How much longer must I carry this ache before the world answers me?

There are bad days, and there are good days—or so I am told. but to me, the difference between them is almost unapparent, like the subtle shift of a breeze that you only notice when it is gone. whether I spend my hours trying to smile through the noise of the world or retreating into the quiet cavern of my mind, I end up here, in the same place.

Nightfall wraps around me like a heavy blanket, pressing down on my chest as if trying to hush every scream I have swallowed. the minutes stretch and tangle as I lie there, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep to take me. it is in those moments, caught in the fragile stillness between wakefulness and dreams, that I feel it—the wish, the prayer, the plea I never speak aloud.

It starts as a murmur deep within, a yearning so ancient it feels like it has always lived in me. I pray—not for love to find me, not for the pieces of my life to align, not even for the fragile thing people call happiness. no, I pray for the quiet, for the end. I beg for my soul to slip away, to set itself free from this weary body, to vanish into the vast unknown and never return.

I imagine it sometimes, this departure. how light I would feel, like a feather cast to the wind, carried far from the weight I drag behind me every day. there is no fear in this imagining, no sadness. only a sense of relief, as if I were finally coming home to a place I had forgotten existed. death is not an enemy to me. It is not the cold, heartless thief others speak of. to me, it is a quiet, patient lover, waiting just beyond the veil, arms open, whispering promises of release.

I don’t cry when I pray for this. There are no tears left in me for such things. It is not desperation that drives me, nor anger, nor even grief. It is simply a longing, steady and persistent, like a melody I can’t stop humming under my breath. I let the prayer spill silently from my lips, a secret confession to the void, hoping the darkness hears me, hoping it answers.

But the darkness doesn’t answer. Morning always comes, indifferent and stiff, dragging me back into the world I had hoped to leave behind. I open my eyes to the pale light creeping through the cracks in the blinds, and for a moment, I feel nothing. Not relief, not regret—just the dull ache of another day to endure.

And so it goes. Bad days, good days, meaningless days. Each one blending into the next until they’re indistinguishable. Yet every night, without fail, I find myself in that same place—on the edge of sleep, whispering the same prayer, sending it into the void. Perhaps, one day, the void will answer. Or perhaps, it won’t.
For now, I linger in the in-between, alive but not quite living, waiting for a peace that feels forever out of reach.

What have I become? Nothing but a monster, a hollow shell that craves love and companionship—simple, human things I will never truly possess. I stand apart, not by choice, but by the cruel design of my nature. Every human has these things, these connections, but not me. I am no human, nor can I ever pretend to be. Who am I trying to deceive with these delusions? No one but myself.

Everyone sees the monster I am everyone but me. I’ve clung to the false hope that I could rewrite my truth, that I could bury the shadows and emerge into the light. But how long can I deny the lies that I have built my existence upon? When will I accept that the reflection I hate is the truest part of me? The truth I’ve tried so hard to suppress bleeds through, no matter how deeply I try to bury it.

I wanted to be seen for what I wish to be: kind, worthy, loved. But no matter how hard I try, the monster is always there etched into my face, carved into my soul. It’s not something I can escape or hide. The scars of my existence show on the surface, and even more beneath. Who am I really? Can I even answer that question, or am I just fragments of despair stitched together by the lies I’ve told myself?

I dream of a life where I am free, free of the torment, free of the hollow ache that gnaws at me every waking moment. But dreams are for the living, for the hopeful. And I am neither. Forgotten, lonely, forever abandoned—my fate is sealed. Love was never meant for me, and yet I crave it with a desperation that consumes me. A paradox, a curse, an existence I never chose but must endure.

If I am ever remembered, it will not be as I wish to be. I won’t be cherished or mourned. I will be remembered as the darkness that swallowed everything, a shadow that crept into the corners of their minds and left them cold. That is who I am, a curse, a blemish, a stain that should have been erased long ago.

I burn with longing, but it’s the wrong kind of flame. It doesn’t warm; it destroys. A fire that consumes me from the inside, leaving nothing but ash where there once might have been hope. I scream silently into the void, but no one hears. No one ever does.

This is my truth: I am a monster. A being meant to be forgotten. A curse destined to be cast out of memory, written out of history, and lost in the abyss. I exist only to remind the world of what it fears most; emptiness. And in that emptiness, I remain.

Can I not waste my youth on careful steps,  
on days that dissolve into the haze of sameness?  
Let me fling myself toward the edge of meaning,  
toward the sharp teeth of risk,  
and taste the blood of every mistake.  

Can I love you with a voice unbroken,  
a shout that shatters glass and wakes the earth?  
Let me strip away the thin gauze of decorum,  
the soft bindings of propriety,  
and wear my longing like armour,  
gleaming, unapologetic, defiant.  

Can I carry you in ways the world will see,  
your face etched in the silver at my neck.
a small, heavy sun  
pulling my body forward in its orbit.  
Not as a charm or a trinket,  
but as proof that I have known fire,  
that I have burned for something.  

I want to run with my youth clutched in my fists,  
like a thief stealing seconds from eternity.  
I want to strip it of its silks and jewels,  
let it stand bare in the rain,  
breathless, soaked in hunger,  
aching and alive.  

I will not waste this riot in my blood,  
this fleeting storm,  
this electric sky that darkens too soon.  

Let me spend it recklessly,  
on nights that leave us shaking,  
on mornings that blur at the edges,  
on the taste of your name whispered  
or screamed  
or spoken like prayer.  

Can I love you with the force of collapsing stars,  
with the weight of a thousand unsaid words,  
with a boldness that terrifies?  
Can I carry your face as my shield,  
your love as my battle cry?  

When the end comes—  
as it always does—  
let me look back and see the wreckage  
of a life lived like a tempest,  
its ruins shimmering in the sun,  
its echoes still singing in the air.  

Let me say I loved you  
loudly, fiercely, entirely.  
Let me say I did not waste a single breath.

I have always carried within me a rage that defies reason, an anger born of shadows, with no beginning and no end. It surges through my veins like wildfire, an untamed purgatory that feeds on every emotion I offer it. Sadness becomes its kindling, joy its fleeting fuel; even love is not safe from its hunger. This fire lives in me, relentless and unyielding, a storm of embers that scorches every corner of my soul.  

I do not know why I am like this. Why must I always be the tempest when I long to be the breeze? Why am I the hurricane, destructive and wild, when I yearn to be the soft whisper of the wind, soothing and free? I dream of peace, of stillness, of a moment where my spirit is not clawing at the walls of its cage. But peace slips through my fingers like smoke, intangible and cruel.  

I want to matter. I ache for purpose, for meaning, for a reason to silence the roar inside me. I long to love without fear and to be loved without condition. To matter enough that someone, anyone, would stop and see me—not the mask I wear, but the fractured, burning soul beneath.

But they don’t see me. They see the shell I’ve constructed, the armour I’ve forged to keep my fire from spilling out. They see a calm that is a lie, a stillness that hides a thousand storms. And even if they did see, even if they glimpsed the chaos within, would they stay? Or would they flee, as so many have before, unable to face the inferno?  

The fire rages on, unstoppable, insatiable. I want to scream into the void until my voice is nothing but ashes. I want to tear down the heavens and let the world feel the fury that has been my curse. Let it burn, let it break, let it crumble. Maybe then they’d see, maybe then they’d understand.  

But I know, deep down, that even if the world turned to ash, this fire would remain. It is as much a part of me as the air I breathe, the blood in my veins. It is my companion and my prison, my torment and my truth. And though I dream of soft winds and calm waters, I fear I will always be the storm, raging and alone.

What is it to be human?

To love, to care, to hope, to see.

To feel, to appreciate, to simply be.

To live is to long, to give, to believe,
To yearn for the warmth we hope to receive.

To be human is to be loved,

To be seen, cherished, and thought of.

To be missed when absent, wished for in heart,
Yet here I stand, forever torn apart.

A part of me missing, a piece left behind,

A hollow ache no love seems to find.

I give and I give, but nothing returns,

Only questions and heartache, and endless burns.

"I love you"—was it ever true?

Why am I the one so easy to fool?

So hard to love, so hard to stay,
Why am I always cast away?

It hurts, this truth I can’t outrun,

Knowing I will never be someone’s someone.

I wonder, do they see the cracks I hide?
The broken pieces I guard inside?
Am I too much, or not enough,

For a world that feels so sharp, so rough?

My voice grows quiet, my hope turns thin,
As I watch the world, wishing to fit in.
The love I crave seems far from reach,

An ocean too vast, a shore I can’t breach.

What is it to be human, to dream in vain,
To hold on to hope, yet cradle the pain?

To give your heart and be left to grieve,

To wonder if love is something to believe?

Still, the questions echo, sharp and clear,
Why am I so hard to hold near?

Why do I give, yet stand so alone,

Searching for a place to call my own?

Perhaps to be human is to feel this strife,
To wander the edges of love and life.

But oh, how it aches, this lonely fight,

To long for someone, in the dark of night.