It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.

in the quiet hours
my tenant refused to leave,
so I did

time enough for me to meet
strangers on a deck
find my body
everywhere it could stand
see every dead end

I escaped to a string light backyard
where I heard words I’ve never heard
murmured under songs I didn’t know

they liked my scent
and I liked their mind
in the quiet hours

I beg for understanding
   But I can't even figure out myself

I crave recognition
   But do nothing worthy

I'm desperate to be seen
        But my own vision is clouded

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

I bleed in life
As I bleed in my words;
All over the place
And without convention or order.

Tell me your secrets
Tell me your sorrow
All of your regrets
Your dreams of tomorrow
If I asked you to stay
What would you say
Would you tell me right away
Or make it a game we play

I used to think I was a gardener
sowing lifelong seeds
pruning the leaves to ensure
I had the pleasure to grow old with them

I learned my precious plants
can choose to leave
I even learned they knew
how to wilt themselves into the dirt
I watched as nature took some before they even bore their fruit for me to see

I used to think I was a gardener
but I am just the sexton
to their graves

turqoise and bright spins on the ceiling
while i pack the uncomfortable thoughts
into the comforter we don’t share
tucking another day into “waiting”

i read more romance than ever
fantasizing about being touched again
my late intimacy lay in bed beside me

i got you everything you wanted
are you happy?