i don’t want what comes easy.
if it’s handed to me, i let it go.
love without a fight
feels flat, like a song without a beat.

i want the kind of intimacy
you have to
         bleed for,
the kind you can’t reach
until you’ve
          torn off
every soft part of yourself
to prove you deserve it.

i want to chase it down.
run hard until my heart pounds
just to feel it glance back at me,
even once.

i don’t care who else offers sweetness.
    i want the silence to speak.
    i want the stillness to flinch.

maybe it’s not love.
maybe it’s just wanting to be seen
by someone who never really looks.
wanting to matter
to the one person who never needed me.

is that love?
   or am i just
      throwing myself at locked doors
   hoping one might open
if i hurt myself enough knocking.

   maybe i just want to be worth the reaching.
   maybe i want someone
   who doesn’t need me
   to choose me anyway.

i don’t have a bruise
not now
but my skin remembers

because once,
it rooted itself there
  dark and sudden
   from nothing at all

or maybe something small
  that shouldn’t have hurt
   but did

and since then
i’ve learned
  not all pain
   leaves a mark
    but it lingers
     just the same

now i know
that pain doesn’t always
  ask permission
   and not all wounds
    warn you first

but now
i freeze

before hands even reach
before words even fall
  like muscle memory
   but for fear

and now
i tense
when i shouldn’t

i flinch
before anything happens

i wait
for the hit
even when no one’s swinging

because once,
he came without warning
  and now
   my body remembers
    even when my mind
     tries to forget

because once
was enough.

no harm
just shadows
  and the ache
   of almost

because healing
was never
watching the bruise fade
it was learning
that the skin can clear
and still wince
at nothing

still twitch
at the memory
of blue

still ache
where there is no mark

just learning
how to live
  with the fear
   of it all
    returning

i flinch
at nothing

because once
there was something
and it stayed

i hold still
for what might not come

i tense
for what might not come

because it once did
   and that was
enough.

the moment
i’m asked
i say yes
because i can,
not because i want to;
but because
i have a choice,
  and at least
    this way
      i get to choose
        what happens,
          rather than be
            put in a position
              where i don’t.

i don’t want what’s handed to me.
i want what runs.
what looks at me then
looks away.
what i have to earn.

because wanting hurts less
than being handed something that never mattered.

attention means more
   when i have to work for it.
affection feels real
   when it’s rare.

i don’t want easy.
  i want to chase.
  i want to ache.
  i want to reach
and never quite touch.

because longing is safer
than pretending to be satisfied.

it’s easier to keep chasing
when you know the prize isn’t promised;
and you have to work
to even get close.

because chasing
    something real
feels better than
    catching something hollow.

i started solving equations
because they didn’t ask questions.
no why, no how come,
just: isolate x.
balance both sides.
make it neat.

in algebra,
there’s always a method.
expand the brackets,
simplify the mess.
rearrange until it makes sense.

simultaneous questions
felt easier than real ones;
two unknowns,
but at least they listened.
at least they resolved
if you followed the rules.

quadratics fall apart and still come back
to a single solution.
i envied that.

and if i got the answer wrong,
at least i could circle it,
mark where it went wrong,
and fix it.
it wouldn’t be perfect
but at least i could
correct my errors.

in maths,
there’s always a way back.

but in life,
the mistakes don’t
      show up clean.
there’s no
            neat solution,
no second chance to
              fix what’s broken.

so for now,
i’ll solve problems
that i can actually solve,
and fix the things
  i can control.

i used to call it comfort
the way i reached for
a green that didn’t grow anything
     just softened the edges
     and blurred the ache

until fullness
     felt empty

        until the chaos
drowned itself in silence

       until even the storm
learnt to whisper

until emptiness
                felt full

i didn’t call it
escape
not then
just quiet
just something
to get through the day

but even quiet
can rot the roots

i stayed in that winter
   longer than i needed to
     numbed the ache
   until i forgot
     what it was like
   to feel anything grow

but now
green
means something else

it means rebirth,
life
pushing through
thin cracks
in dry ground

it means i don’t run
when the light comes in

that i can sit still
without reaching for a way out

that something in me
is waking up
and wants to stay

the storm came,
it always does.
but you—
you were the anchor.
    you kept me from sinking,
      from pulling into the depths
       of my own turmoil.

                       sometimes, i float
                 in the noise of everything,
             but i always come back to you.
         your stillness pulls me in,
      like the tide always pulls
         the shore.

i had never known
how integral silence could be
until you made it feel safe.
how steady peace could be,
how the weight of your presence,
tethers me to the surface,
  keeping me from
    floating away
      and losing myself
         in the storm

i never told you
how soft you felt
in a world that never let me rest.
how your voice
felt like a doorway
back to myself.

i wanted to say it
a thousand times
in a thousand ways
but each one
felt too loud
for something this quiet.

because i don’t want to lose
what we are
by reaching too hard
for what we could be.
being near you
even like this
feels steadier
than the best of
what i’ve known.

once,
you looked at me
like the softness
was something
you’d always known was there,
hidden in the static.

and when you told me
you believed
in the kindness
beneath my mess,
your words stayed
longer than you’ll ever know.

maybe one day
i’ll find the stillness
to say aloud
what has only lived in quiet;

that something in me
settled
every time you stayed.
not love,
not yet

just the way your presence
makes me softer
without asking me to be.

just the way your presence
makes the world
less loud
and me
less afraid.

she's here,
   in the photograph on my desk,
but not here at all.
   she's there with me
   frozen in a moment
   before it all slipped away.

i trail
   my fingers
      over the glass,

and wonder if it was ever real.
the way we were,
   before the knife went in.
   before she twisted it
   and let me bleed out
   instead of offering
   a hand.

i can’t shake the feeling
      that she’s still here,
             though she never will be again.

you’re the calm in my chaos,
the steady in my storm.

words from you
feel earned

you don’t flood me with noise
but when you speak
each word carries weight
given carefully,
never lightly.

i watch the faithful kneel,
  their eyes soft with trust,
  like they’ve found the answer
  to everything.
  i search for that peace.
a cross resting
  close to their chest,
  as if God lives right there,
  in the space beneath their ribs.

i wonder;
could i hold
a god in my heart
the way they do? —
strong, unshaken,
a savior,
to hold me,
when i forget how to stand.

i wonder if the light
they pray to
could ever find its way
    through the darkness
       of my sinful heart.
maybe one day.

you leaned over
your sleeve brushing mine.
the lanyard hung from your neck,
your shirt a little too neat.
   mine untucked;
      a little too messy.

red ink
   trailing
from your pen
to my paper,
marking it carefully.

it shifted
so i pressed my hand down,
close to yours,
close enough.

you kept writing.
i kept still.
we said nothing.
but the silence
felt full,
closer than touch.

rooted in ash,
with wildfire
quietly burning
beneath soft petals

a rose set alight,
with leaves
  that never begged
   for rain

a quiet kind of burning
that never asked
  to be put out

some passersby
picked the flower,
held her,
tried to care

some passersby
picked her
only to
give her away

but many walked
right over her
as if she were
just an empty flowerbed

as if she weren’t
a pretty flower
as if they didn’t see
the thorns
      or know that petals bruise
      when held too hard

as if softness
was made to be claimed
    not protected

still,
she learned
how to bloom

she stood upright
in cracked earth
with broken stems
and blistered leaves

with fire
in her roots
with ashes
in her veins

reaching
always
for the light

she knew
some blooms open
only in harsh sun
some roots
push through broken ground
just to feel it

there were nights
she curled inward
like a rose
in frost

still,
she rose.

because some flowers still bloom
         in places no one believed
               anything could grow

and now
   she is blooming
     not despite the wildfire
     but because of it