i can sense it,
it’s not as clear as when i fell for you
but i know,
i’m familiar with these feelings too
—i think he’s cute, really.

once i asked,
the question is still unanswered
but maybe you did,
unsure how i’m supposed to take it

i’m scared of silence
not because it’s deafening
but because i can hear;
the footsteps,
the glasses,
the plates,
and everything else.

you made it worth it
—the time i thought was wasted
i smiled, laughed with you
while i hoped i was your favorite too

you were intrigued,
i was overly interested,
perceived your compliments
as sweet endearments,
you showed me attention
i considered them as affection,
while you were just being nice,
reminded me how it was

every night, i was full of delusions,
and hopeless conclusions
and if i could wish,
don’t walk away, that is
i should be the one to leave
for i came to you first

my friends and i saw a girl,
confused, we continued watching
as love don’t change was playing,
she was probably your loml,
it was public,
i became your side chick

he made me pray,
for once i believed,
someone could make me stay,
and turn the way i’ve lived
but here i am, writing in dismay
and for the seventh time,
i’m finding words that rhyme
these mixed feelings i could hardly say

respond to me once,
i could gather millions of butterflies,
somehow, it’s tiring,
but i’m addicted to this feeling

you made me a clown
yet i’m giggling now,
my angels witnessed
how my body was shaking
while my attempt was sending
—it was extremely thrilling
and in a millisecond,
you got me screaming,
singing “but daddy i love him”,
i was mad for trying
still, i got nothing

you made me scream,
your name was on my screen
i was convinced you dislike me,
the ignorance in my letters lately.

should i say i was being naive,
thinking things you’ve shared
were for me to receive?

a beggar of your time,
an intruder in your heart
when would i ever hear
the sound of a welcoming chime?

my strangeness is coming to light again
unknown to my own, conceited yet in vain
i was never blind to my own longings,
i know what or who to disdain—my loathings,
but these days,
i’m a stranger to myself

you write feelings left unspoken
of those who were in blue.
i actually write too,
but only when i’m broken.
would that be a zero for you?