i wear
the cloak of expectations,
stitched from the sins of others,
woven tight like fig leaves —
covering the shame
that is
not mine.

they say,  
    be this,
          be that,
    carry the burden
                   of the world —  
              like the mount of uhud,  
                     heavy,  
                          and unyielding.  

but when i look
into the mirror,
it shatters,
like the moon split asunder,
pieces scattered
across the floor,
beyond repair.

    “just be happy,”  
                      they say,  
        “be perfect,  
                   be the image,  
                        the reflection.”  

but my soul
feels like a vessel,
empty,
lost,
waiting for the rain,
as if i am the dry earth,
thirsting for the mercy
of a single drop.

                                          i reach for the stars —
                                          but my hands
                                          can never grasp
                                          the heavens.

i look for the light,  
                  but the darkness swallows it whole,  
                  and i wonder —  
                   if i’ve stopped looking,  
              if the search  
                       was always  
                        a lie.  

     they say,  
              to be enough,
                 but the world  
                 only knows the hunger —  
                  the longing for something  
                          beyond reach.  

how many times,
must i lift my heart
like the mountain,
and yet,
still
fall short?

                            have i not been enough?
              am i not enough?
                            or was i never meant to be?

the ink of my life
is written on fragile skin,
prayers said in silence —
but no one listens anymore.

but when the world turns away,
i remain here

                                                                      lost,
                                                                 empty,
                                                        wondering —


                                                        am i enough?

the air warps around me,
thick as honey,
slow as an apology that never comes.

i step in

a ghost with bones too solid,
a statue mid-topple,
something left in the sun too long.

the voices tangle like vines,
threading through spaces i don’t fit,
winding around my throat,
pulling too tight when i try to speak.

i hold my hands like they belong to someone else,
porcelain and brittle,
too smooth, too still,
waiting for someone to mold them into a shape
that makes sense.

the silence swells in my chest
a balloon too full,
a scream with no teeth,
a door that won’t open no matter how hard i knock.

i smile like it’s an answer.
i nod like i understand.

i stand in the center of the room
like a misplaced chair,
waiting for someone to sit,
waiting for someone to move me,
waiting to disappear.

is it always this loud,  
         or have i just started     listening?

the air        pulses—  
      not from sound,  
               but from        expectation.  

      what if i forget how to breathe  
            without someone watching?  
     what if i already have?  

the ceiling sweats.  
      the walls lean in.  
           does the room know  
              i’m trying not to fall apart?

my skin        buzzes,  
         not from fear,  
                 but from      waiting for it.  
       for the sharp thing,  
                   the wrong word,  
                        the slow blink that ruins everything.  

why does silence feel like accusation?  
      why do voices sound      like mirrors?

       i blink,  
            and the world repositions—  
       not violently,  
              just enough to unseat me.  

          the chair shifts under my weight.  
     am i too much again?  
                or is it just the thought of being seen  
                         that makes me so?  

every word i speak  
         frays at the edges,  
     like it's trying to escape me mid-sentence.  
            are they still listening?  
                  were they ever?

    my heartbeat stutters—  
         not in fear,  
               but in     anticipation  
                        of fear.  

      there is no danger here.  
            then why does the door  
                 look like a verdict?

i want to ask for help,  
         but the words feel  
                  like spilled glass—  
                         how do you pick them up  
                                 without bleeding?  

         and if i’m always breaking,  
     who would stay long enough  
           to gather the pieces?

        how much of this  
              is just being alive?  
        and how much  
                is whatever i’ve become  
                       while trying to hide it?

     what is the name for this feeling—  
             not drowning,  
                   not burning,  
                        just shaking  
                              beneath still water?


       when does the body  
             stop mistaking its own breath  
                        for danger?

the world hums in static.
your hands—are they yours?
does your voice sound the same to others as it does in your skull?
who told you that you are real, and why did you believe them?

breathe

the sun rises because it must.
because we expect it to.
because we have seen it do so before —
and so we trust the pattern.
but who winds the clock?
who decides the rhythm of the tide?
what if the moon is just pretending?

they told you:
gravity holds you down.
the past is unchangeable.
the body is the self.
(you nodded,
you swallowed,
you never checked the label)

breathe

your mind is a funhouse mirror,
stretching, warping, turning silhouettes into specters,
turning questions into monsters —
and we name them knowledge.

but if every fact was fed to you,
if every truth was a hand-me-down,
stitched together from dead men's words,
what have you ever known firsthand?

does fire burn if you don’t believe in it?

breathe

we talk in recycled language,
walk on secondhand roads,
dream in someone else’s vision.
but where does the script end?
where do you begin?

—if you peeled back the sky like wet paper,
would it bleed static or nothing at all?

what would you do with that kind of silence?

why  
                          do you say the sky is clear  
                      when the clouds  
                                   are chewing  
                            on the sun?

          what makes you blink so fast  
                     when someone whispers  
             i’m fine  
                   like a lie  
                         wrapped in a compliment?

     is your smile stretched—  
                  or stitched?  
                            can you even feel  
                         the corners of it anymore?  

         how many rehearsals  
                         does it take  
                 before a feeling feels  
                                       real?  

                     do your hands twitch  
                        because you’re cold—  
             or because silence  
                              has teeth?  

      is there a ghost  
               in your throat  
                        or just  
             words you never learned  
                                how to carry?  

  how long  
        can you keep dodging mirrors  
                         before you forget  
                                      what a face  
                                                    even does?

          how many opinions  
                  fit in a shopping cart  
                                  at half-off?

   did you choose them?  
                        did you try them on?  
       did you like how they made  
                                  you look?  

       or did you just wear them  
                              because they were  
                                     trending?

              who taught you  
         to nod when you meant no  
                       and smile  
                              when your bones  
                       wanted to howl?

         did they say  
               it was polite  
                         to fold yourself  
               into origami  
                               that never unfolds?

     why do you ask  
                          how are you  
                   like it’s a pop quiz?  
          is the answer  
                    just another line  
                                      in your script?

      is it easier  
            to be misunderstood—  
                            than  
                        to be fully  
                                seen?

         when you speak—  
                    are you offering  
              a bridge  
                    or laying  
                a trap?

               are you listening  
           or just  
                 reloading?

what are you protecting  
                 with all that certainty?  

        do you believe what you say—  
                      or are you just  
                good at  
                          sounding  
                             like you do?

                 why do you keep  
        building fences  
             and painting them  
                          like windows?  

          do you realize  
                      how much of you  
                goes missing  
          every time  
                   you shrink yourself  
                                 to fit  
                                        inside someone else’s  
                                                                echo?

and—

          when was the last time  
                   you sat with a question  
                            and didn’t  
                     rip it open  
                          like it owed you  
                                       a map?

       what if—

                      the point  
                              was never  
                      to find  
                                 answers  

                             but to become  
                                           a better  
                                                   question?

the classroom hums like a beehive,
buzzing with words that do not belong to me.
i sit in the back, hands folded,
trying to take up less space,
trying not to be seen.

but they see me.
they always do.
eyes like knives, voices like hands,
pushing, pulling, twisting
stretching me into something
too ugly to keep, too strange to hold.

i laugh when they laugh.
i pretend not to hear when they don’t.
my name is a song sung off-key,
passed between them like a bad joke,
a whisper behind cupped hands,
a note scrawled in the margins of a test
where the teacher will not look.

i carry their voices home in my pockets.
unfold them beneath my sheets,
let them crawl under my skin,
settle into my bones,
make a home in the quiet of my ribs.

the mirror holds me like a stranger,
mouth too stiff, eyes too empty,
body too much,
body not enough.

years pass, and their voices do not leave.
they linger, soft as breath on glass,
cold as a winter morning,
as a hand pressed firm against my back,
reminding me to shrink.

i speak, and my words sound borrowed.
i move, and i second-guess my steps.
i reach, and the world recoils —
as if i am still twelve,
still waiting for permission to exist.

the sky split open like an old wound,
light bleeding through the cracks
golden, sticky, slow.

i reached up to touch it,
let it drip onto my tongue,
let it settle in my throat like a prayer
i never learned the words to.

                    (they told me god is warmth —  
    but warmth and fire feel the same  
            when you’re too close to both.)  

the ground swayed beneath me,
soft as a mother’s voice in the dark,
but lullabies are just soft hands on your
shoulders, keeping you steady before you go.

                           so i walked,  

barefoot over cinders,
over embers that called me darling,
called me home.

and the fire
curled around my ribs like a whisper,
like fingers laced together in sanctioned halls,
like someone humming my name just low enough
that i could pretend
i imagined it.

                      (but i didn’t.)  

                           i listened.  

hellfire sings sweetly —
and i hum along.