It begins with a whisper,
soft as feathers brushing bone,
a murmur threaded with sweet venom:
You’re too much, you know that?
He says it like love, like it’s kindness
to clip the wings he gave me.

I laugh,
because that’s what you do when
someone you trust steps on your shadow,
calling it a game.
I laugh,
because his smile holds me hostage,
because my silence has become
the price of his calm.

And then it grows,
the laughter sharpens into teeth.
Each word dressed in humor
but hiding the sting.
You’re insane.
He says it with his eyes locked on mine,
searching for the fracture.
You believe anything, don’t you? Idiot.
And the room becomes smaller
as the air folds itself into shame.

I once thought trust
was a ribbon we tied between us,
a thread unbroken.
But he pulls it taut
only to watch me stumble,
to laugh as it frays
beneath the weight of his lies.

I was naive—
yes, that’s true—
to think love was a place of safety,
to believe his words were mine to hold.
But now, his laughter
hangs heavy in the corners,
and I wonder:
when did the joke become me?

It isn’t love
when your softness becomes his sport,
when he laughs at the tender parts
and calls it play.
It isn’t love
to twist innocence into a punchline
and leave the room echoing
with your shame.

But still,
he grins like the sun,
and for a moment,
I almost believe
it’s all in my head.

I recognise my ego nature
as I fall into
judgemental rage..
Still, I grasp a hold of my mind
allowing my higher self to take the stage.
Thoughts are clouds
they’re plagues, they’re thief’s,
of which
mindfulness is the only relief.

Worse than an American diet
stress will take its toll…
Better learn to meditate
before you get too old!

I am tired,
like the tide—dragged forward, pulled back,
never still long enough to feel whole.
The sheets, tangled like seaweed,
hold the stories of nights I’d rather forget,
their salt-stained whispers clinging to my skin.
I wish for something small,
something I could cup in my hands—
a moth, a moment,
a bit of light to carry me through.

I have worn too many costumes.
The brave daughter, the loyal friend,
the woman who keeps her head high,
even when the sky presses down.
But I am tired of rehearsals.
Tired of fitting myself into frames
that cut me at the edges.
It’s hard to keep smiling
when your reflection keeps slipping
out of its skin.

No one tells you how to explain
the kind of broken that doesn’t come
with instructions. No subtitles for the father
who walked away like a stranger,
or the mother who tried—
God, how she tried—
but her hands were already full
of her own crumbling foundation.
Some lessons are too heavy
for the tongue.

I am falling,
not like the movies—no slow-motion grace—
but fast and heavy,
the way rain hammers the earth,
each drop praying it won’t drown.
I need arms that know the language of holding—
friends, lovers, strangers
who can take this weight
and turn it into something softer.
A raft, a lullaby, a way through.

Let me rest. Let me lay it all down.
Let the fight leak out of me like ink,
disappearing into the sheets, the walls,
the dark. I don’t need much—
just a quiet room,
a heartbeat steady enough
to remind me I am not alone.
A chance to breathe
without my chest caving in.

But tonight, it’s just me—
the bed too big, the wish too small,
hovering like a bird
who doesn’t know how to land.