Fingers trace the pages, hearts untold,  
Aching where the fiction burns her skin.  
Touches linger longer than they should,  
A spark too fierce to quiet deep within.  
Lust is not a whisper—it’s a scream.  

Yearning swells in every glance, unchecked,  
Every fleeting brush ignites the flame,  
And still, she drowns in all that she expects,  
Ravaged by a hunger with no name.  
Never his, yet bound by his embrace,  
In his arms, she burns and lets him take,  
Nothing quenches longing’s cruel embrace,  
Giving in to what she’ll never break.

Tangled in memories of open arms,
I used to melt into every embrace,
but now even a brush of skin
sends a shiver I can’t explain.

Once, touch felt like home,
a language spoken without words.
Now it lingers like an echo,
familiar yet distant, haunting me.

Underneath the discomfort,
there’s an ache I can’t name—
is it emptiness, is it longing,
or is it just him?

Clutching at air, at absence,
I tell myself I don’t need it,
but my body remembers
the last time I truly did.

Held for the last time,
three months and counting,
by the only arms that ever
felt like they wouldn’t let go.

I am full of life,
a burst of color spilling into quiet corners,
a voice that fills the empty spaces,
a presence that reaches out—
not to take, but to give,
not to demand, but to share.

And yet,
they pull away,
not because they don’t love me,
not because I am too much,
but because they need the quiet
the way I need the noise.

Still, the silence stings.
It whispers lies—
that I have said too much,
felt too deeply,
loved too hard.
That I am the burden
they do not want to carry.

But that’s not the truth.

The truth is,
they step back because they must,
and I stay, arms open,
learning that love is not measured
by presence alone,
but by the space we allow each other to breathe.

So I sit with the quiet,
not as an enemy,
but as a lesson,
learning that I, too,
can be whole in the waiting,
worthy in the stillness,
enough—
even when I am alone.

You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
Each half-spun tale ignites a darker fire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

You speak in riddles, dodging clear confines,  
Yet every name you bury fuels my ire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

You think me blind, but darling, I divine  
The ghosts you hide—I know your every liar,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

I let it slide, my silence once benign,  
But venom drips from all that you conspire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

I dream of ways to make your secrets mine,  
To watch you squirm beneath the tangled wire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

Still, here I stay—though fury blurs the lines,  
Your pretty words are drowning in the mire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.

You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
A name withheld, a story left unclear,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

You never speak the truth that meets my eyes,  
The gaps you leave are louder than you fear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

Each hesitant confession I despise,  
Yet love still tethers me, though pain is near,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

I know the who, the what—your vague replies,  
You dance around the things I hate to hear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

But if I call you out, the moment dies,  
I bite my tongue and swallow down the tear,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

One day, perhaps, the truth will meet my eyes,  
Or I will leave before it disappears—  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.

Do you feel the weight  
of my name when it flickers across your screen?  
Does it settle in your chest,  
a slow-burning ember,  
or is it just another name, another light,  
another moment you let pass?  

Do you feel the weight  
of hearing my name in a crowded room?  
Does it pull your thoughts toward me,  
the way yours does when I see it—  
buried in scripture,  
a name meant to mean something,  
a name I can’t read without thinking of you?  

Do you feel the weight  
of the hurt you’ve left behind?  
The nights I knew—  
but pretended not to.  
The times you whispered lies into my ear  
while holding someone else in the dark.  
Did you feel the weight  
when I did the same?  
Did it crush you like I hoped it would?  

Do you feel the weight  
when our fingers brush,  
when our eyes meet  
and neither of us dares to look away?  
Do you feel it tighten around your throat  
when you say my name,  
like it does for me?  
Or do you breathe easy,  
unburdened,  
untouched?  

Do you feel the weight  
of silence,  
of wanting to call,  
of wanting to tell me—  
everything, anything—  
but stopping yourself?  
You were always the first person I told,  
my safest place,  
but was I ever that for you?  

Do you feel the weight  
of knowing I would do anything,  
because I know you would too?  
If I say, please,
you listen.  
That has to mean something,  
doesn’t it?  

Do you feel the weight  
of knowing I can’t imagine anyone else?  
That I don’t believe in accidents,  
that I don’t believe you are just another boy
that I don’t believe you are not mine?  

Do you feel the weight  
the way I do?

She stands at the counter,
flour dusting her fingertips,
cinnamon curling through the air like a whisper
she’s afraid to speak aloud.

A pinch of salt, a dash of thyme—
she throws them in like she’s casting a spell,
but nothing ever turns out right.
Too much heat, not enough heart,
the flavors never fold into each other,
never blend the way they should.

In her mind, another bowl waits—
one no one can see.
She tosses in “too much,” packs in “not enough,”
folds in “too loud” like stiff egg whites,
sifts in “too big” until it settles in the cracks.
No recipe, no measurements, just
a mess she can never quite fix.

She walks through the grocery store
like a stranger in a foreign place,
staring at shelves lined with things
she doesn’t know how to use.
Aisles stretch too wide, labels blur,
and the pressure knots in her stomach
until she turns around, empty-handed.
She just won’t go next time.

She can bake, though.
She knows the way sugar melts into butter,
how vanilla warms a room,
how patience turns batter to gold.
But sweets feel like a confession,
like proof.
So she says she can’t.
Pretends her hands are clumsy,
her cakes always sink.
Shrinks behind the lie
because it’s easier than the truth.

She just wishes she could cook.
Wishes she could make something people need.
Wishes she didn’t feel like a failed recipe.