He stands where the shadows meet,
A choice that dances, bittersweet.
In his gaze, a world untold,
A flicker of warmth, a whisper of cold.

He’s the pull of tides, the hush of the moon,
A fleeting note in a haunting tune.
Caught between what could and can’t,
A lover’s dream, a life’s restraint.

I trace his words, like lines of fate,
In echoes of love, in shadows of hate.
His touch—a storm, both soft and fierce,
A balm for wounds he didn’t pierce.

Yet still, I stand on shifting ground,
In silence, where his name resounds.
He’s not just a soul, but a choice to be,
A mirror reflecting the depths of me.

Though fear lingers, I know what’s true—
A future bright, shaped by me and you.
We’re bound by threads no hand can sever,
Our love a promise: someday, forever.

But anxious thoughts begin to creep,
A fear that runs so dark, so deep.
What if one of us breaks apart,
And shatters this love before it can start?

Our inner children cry for care,
For love we’ve sought, but found so rare.
Yet fear looms large, and we both know,
The pain if this ends will scar and grow.

I see the weight he quietly bears,
The scars of hurt, the fragile air.
We’ve both been lost, unloved, unseen,
Yet in each other, we’ll finally be clean.

No ex could hold what we now hold,
No fleeting love, no story told.
We are the shelter, the sacred place,
The love that time could not erase.

With him, I know we’re meant to be,
Our paths by stars and fate decree.
In his heart, I’ve found my home,
With him, I’ll never feel alone.

So here I linger, heart in hand,
No longer caught between sea and land.
We are the love we searched to find,
Two broken hearts, now intertwined.

The walls breathe in static—
a hum, a crackle, a whisper of wires
pulling tight around my throat.
Every sound a gunshot.
Every shadow a knife.
The milk spills,
a galaxy spreading across the floor,
an apocalypse in white.

Outside, the neon world churns,
spitting teeth, shrapnel dreams.
Everything slick, wet, sharp.
The streets groan,
their intestines spilling out
in the form of cracked asphalt and broken glass.
I can’t leave;
I won’t.

Inside, the air thickens,
a syrup of dread.
Home is a box,
four corners dripping in soft rot.
I sleep under the table
because the bed is too open,
the ceiling too close.

An old television flickers in the corner—
faces in grayscale,
lips moving with no sound.
I try to pull their words apart,
but they squirm like worms.

Every second fractures,
splitting into shards.
Each shard digs in deep—
a hiccup, a phone ringing,
a window slammed shut
by the hands of ghosts.

I try to glue myself together
with the thought of silence.
But silence is a gun too,
a loaded chamber waiting to click.

The wolves circle out there—
dressed as mailmen, as friends,
as my own reflection.
I clutch the blanket,
a shroud, a shield,
a joke.

Safe.
Safe?
Safety is a story they sell in pills,
in pamphlets, in soft voices
that drip honey and venom.
But the wolves are here.
The wolves are me.
The wolves are you.

Pain within my every word
Mental instability
Never very kind or patient
Definitely not conducive to tranquility

Oh to be free all I long for
World exterminated of hate
Something I've dreamt about often
Life has refused to cooperate

Relaxation an overstayed houseguest
Won't take my subtle hints to leave
Some think I enjoy lazy demeanor
Desperately wish goals I could acheive

I'm not worthless degenerate
Just process events differently than most
A am a lost soul fighting depression
Inside haunted by a nameless ghost

With zero way to discover a road to bliss
Words I scribble my comfort when dark
Everything is a fleeting experience
Perception altered by every harmful remark

Is swallowing truth so hard
That it sticks in back of my throat?
If it is I'll forcefully choke it down
Weight why it's difficult to float

the women are strong and beautiful
and relentless
the women can withstand pain
far greater than any man
113 pounds of meat walking the streets
they don’t need your muscles
they have their voice
and before you know it
you’re tossed out on the streets
or left alone with roaches
or thrown in a jail cell
or taken to court
or put in a madhouse
after they got inside your head
and tore you down psychologically
or played with your emotions like a puppet
and left you to the point of suicide while
they ride around town with younger men
113 pounds of meat walking the streets
the power they hold
the magic they perform
the voice they use
they can take you to heaven
or send you straight to hell
they can clean the **** stains
from your underwear
or have you sitting on the edge of a bed
in a hotel room, penniless, with the bottle
tilted towards the stucco ceiling,
wondering where it all went wrong
they don’t need your muscles
save them
for whoever or whatever
might be coming next.