Every day the voice grows louder, a low tide moving over the edges of my life until there is almost nothing left but the hush it leaves behind. It does not shout; it never needs to. It leans close in the quiet hours — when the city exhales, when the kettle has gone cold on the stove — and speaks with the steady softness of someone who knows every fracture inside me. Its words are not cruel. They are velvet-soft invitations, the kind that makes you forget the jaggedness, of the world for a moment and imagine only the ease of surrender.

There is a warmth to it, and that is the strangest part. I find myself startled by how gentle it feels, like a hand at the small of my back guiding me towards something that will end the ache without explanation. Around other people I have known harshness that didn’t pretend it was anything else. With them there were arguments and doors slammed and the brittle noise of disappointment. This is different; this is a quiet that hums a lullaby and calls me by a name I used to like. In another life — or in another dream — it is not Death at all but a lover waiting in a doorway with a coat in their hand, patient, familiar, and impossibly kind.

I want to lean into it as you would into a familiar shoulder. I imagine running my palms along its calmness and finding there the kind of rest I have tried to find in strangers’ eyes. There’s a softness in the idea of being held so completely that the need to fight for air fades, and when the thought comes it does not arrive with accusations but with an understanding so thorough it almost feels like mercy. In my mind it becomes a room with low light and no questions; it becomes the end of the long, useless performance of holding myself together for people who never learned how to hold me back.

And still, even as the comfort seeps into my bones, there is a tremor, a recognition of the impossibility of it all. To let myself lean fully is to cross a line I have been warned about, to step into a hush that is both a promise and a disappearance. Yet I imagine the embrace anyway: the quiet ripple of its presence threading through my chest, a tide that lifts me free from all the jagged edges I carry and all the expectations I have stitched onto my skin. It is not violent, not demanding, not impatient — it is a patience that knows I will come, eventually, in my own time.

I think of all the nights I have spent alone, staring at walls that could not listen, and I understand that this is the voice that has been waiting. Its gentleness is a kind of violence against my loneliness, dismantling it piece by piece until the walls fall away, and I am left with nothing but the hush — nothing but the undeniable clarity that somewhere, in the softest corner of the world, I am seen, I am known, I am held. And for a moment, that is enough.

The more I listen, the more I remember — not faces or names, not places exactly, but sensations, brief moments I thought I had forgotten. The smell of rain on asphalt, the warmth of a stranger’s hand in a city that never stops moving, the echo of music I can no longer place. Each memory trembles when Death speaks, and in its voice I feel the fragile thread that connects them all: the ache of being alive, the wonder of having survived it. It is both cruel and merciful, the way it uncovers the tenderest parts of me and holds them without comment.

Sometimes I imagine speaking back. I imagine asking Death if it has known what it is like to carry a body through years that never learned gentleness, to hold a heart so bruised it forgets it can beat at all. I imagine its reply, soft and knowing: that it has known, that it has always known, and that it is here now, waiting, patient, unwavering. I picture the quiet room stretching around us like a cathedral of a hush, each breath a candle flame, each heartbeat a soft echo of something I almost dared to hope for.

There is a strange courage in this imagining, a boldness in feeling the pull without needing to act. I do not have to move; I do not have to surrender. I only have to let the voice settle around me like smoke, let it fill the corners of my mind that have been empty for too long, and notice what happens when the world finally stops insisting that I am not enough. And in noticing, I feel something like grace: the sharp edges of existence dull, the questions fall silent, and the ache softens into a kind of recognition. I exist. I am here. I am known.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I reach toward it — not fully, not yet — and the hush leans closer, and I am home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The moment my eyes met yours my heart started longing for things that I never had, a love that I never felt

If asked to name love in a single word,

I’d whisper your name, soft as a bird.

But one word alone could never suffice,

For love, with you, is boundless, precise.

I'd speak of our spark, a flame that won't dim,

Of the solace I find when you pull me in.

When we embrace, I am home at last,

A haven eternal, unshaken, steadfast.

Your glance ignites a leap in my heart,

A symphony sweet, a work of pure art.

Your touch, so gentle, like whispers of rain,

A balm to my soul, erasing all pain.

I thought I was whole till you came to me,

Unveiling the depths of what love could be.

Now my heart overflows, an infinite stream,

With love to give you, the heart of my dream.

One word cannot hold this tidal wave,

A love so vast, even time can't enslave.

For when I met you, words burst in a flood,

Like lightning's etch, carved deep in my blood.

Star-struck by the gaze in your dazzling eyes,

I wonder, is this what we call soul ties?

No one will ever love you the way you love them,  
Nor cherish you the way you cherish them.  
We dream, we hope, we ache to find,  
A love that mirrors heart and mind.  

But no—this world is cruel and bare,  
The givers give, yet none will share.  
We pour our souls, we spill our light,  
Into the void of endless night.  

We give, we burn, we tear apart,  
Fueling fires from a hollow heart.  
Hoping one day, perhaps, we'll earn,  
A love as pure as what we yearn.  

But no—our giving goes unseen,  
Our brightest flames turn cold, serene.  
Behind four walls, in shadowed grace,  
We crumble in a quiet place.  

The angels hear our silent cries,  
As pieces of our spirit dies.  
Still, we cling to fragile dreams,  
Of love as vivid as it seems.  

Movies paint a fleeting glow,  
Of tender hearts that heal and grow.  
But we, the givers, bear the cost,  
Forever giving, forever lost.  

They take our light, our endless joy,  
Until there's nothing left to destroy.  
Then leave us hollow, dim, and bare,  
To mend alone in our despair.  

Yet still, we rise, though beaten down,  
To wear again love's fragile crown.  
And once more, the cycle turns,  
Our hearts ignite, our spirit burns.  

But love, for us, is a curse, a blight,  
A beacon fading into night.  
Behind these walls, we break, we mend,  
A story cursed to never end.