A small, reluctant smile forms on your lips;
small because there are no smiles without the guilt
that comes from being the only flower in a field of weeds.

I’ve got
seven songs
on repeat.

They don’t ask me to talk.
They don’t tell me to cheer up.
They just play,
quietly,
loudly,
however I need them.

Vestige
whispers
like a ghost I once knew,
soft, aching—
it holds my breath in its careful hands
and never asks
why I’m fading.

Caramel drips down
slow and sweet,
like it knows my ribs
are tired of holding it all in.
It doesn’t try to fix me—
it just sits,
a quiet sadness
that understands.

When The Sun Sleeps
doesn’t sleep at all—
it screams,
loud, raw, honest.
It bleeds the things I buried
and somehow,
that noise feels more like home
than silence ever did.

Overflow crashes like a wave
right when I thought I was dry.
It drowns me—
but gently,
like rage that remembers
I’m still human.

To The Flowers
sounds like falling apart
and finally letting go.
It’s heavy,
but blooms in the dark,
grief growing
into something real.

Nero Forte fights for me
when I’m too tired to fight myself.
It’s chaos—pure,
relentless—
a storm I can scream into
and still
walk out of.

When It Rains
makes me feel fifteen and fragile,
but soft enough
to remind me
I’m not wrong
for feeling everything
too much.

These seven songs don’t save me.
They don’t have to.
They just stay—
and some nights,
that’s the only thing
that keeps me here.

I hate it when people look behind bright smiles;
when they look at the underpainting of my heart
and find that there’s nothing behind my laughter
but empty white that lacks dream or purpose
and was only born to remain hidden.

I remember smiling brightly
and laughing
when talking about you–
as if you were still alive.
I don’t know who I was lying to,
if to them,
to your memory
or to myself.

Mindless eyes stare at screens
that follow code written long ago
into their tiny microchips.
Technology is like a drug;
a seed planted in the brain
that injects dopamine
when lit with the right
combination of RGBs.
It is watered by loneliness,
and the nutrients it takes
are the ones that make up happiness.
Eventually,  
when there is nothing left
the brain will rot
until we are all so ill
we end up throwing our bodies away;
we are the reusable pots
of our own inventions.