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

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.

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.

When I was younger, I dreamed of being a star.
Not the kind that fades quietly in the night, but one that burned under a spotlight—
brilliant, untouchable, where my name carried weight and was whispered with awe.
I was five, eyes wide with wonder, heart light as air.
Back then, I believed that being seen was the same as being loved,
that the world would hold me gently if I shone brightly enough.

But now? Now I crave the shadows.
Not the soft shadows cast by light, but the deep ones,
the kind that swallow you whole and ask no questions.
I want to disappear into the quiet corners of the world,
where faces fade into obscurity, and names dissolve into nothing.
I long for silence,
to be far from consequence, from expectation,
and furthest of all—from myself.

My name feels foreign now,
a hollow syllable with no meaning,
a sound that drifts on the air but never lands.
It once carried dreams, hopes, promises,
but now it is weightless,
an echo I no longer recognise.

When I was younger, I wanted to shine.
I thought light would fill the cracks inside me,
that the applause would quiet the loneliness.
But now, I wish to fade—to slip beyond the edges of the frame,
to blur into the background where no one looks too closely.

Sometimes, I wonder if I missed my moment to vanish.
I think of the sea, vast and endless,
and of the moments when I stood at its edge,
the waves whispering an invitation to let go,
to drift beyond reach, where the world could no longer find me.
I should have jumped.
I should have surrendered to the tide and let it erase me,
soft and silent.

Yet, here I stand, caught in the in-between.
A shadow dreaming of being unseen,
a ghost clinging to the fragments of a name.
I do not know what keeps me tethered,
what keeps me here, on the cusp of fading.
Maybe it is the faintest flicker of hope,
or maybe it is just fear disguised as longing.

When I was younger, I thought I was destined to be a star.
Now, I just want to disappear.

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.