i always know it’s getting bad
when i start chewing on the tie of my sweatshirt.
i think it’s called an
aglet,
but all i know is,
it’s fraying like
me.

her words settle like dust
on the edges of mirrors
i already avoid.

she called me names
i’ve spent years
unlearning.

her voice wasn’t loud,
but it carried—
straight to the part of me
that still believes
every insult
ever whispered.

i tell myself she’s wrong,
but i know i’ll carry this
long after she’s forgotten
she ever said it.

there’s a guilt i can’t explain,
an ache without a name,
like i’m sorry for something
i never became.

no one’s here
to guard the quiet,
no voice to say enough
when the silence
starts sharpening.

i wish i didn’t need
a chaperone for my sadness,
didn’t fear
what i might do
when left alone
with my own hands.

open hello poetry
search your last name
click on your profile
check for new poems
(they’re not common
but they come in floods)
write poems
contemplate the what-ifs
feel immense sadness
(for no reason)
it’s nothing new

im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past
im here now
im not in the past

i feel things too deeply
it’s just kind of the way i am
each laugh or each sigh
is a weight upon my heart
it’s like i can sense unspoken pain
within every crowded room
god i wish it didn’t have to be like this
i still remember what you said
why do you think
i stopped bringing lunch?
someone please make it end
it’s too much for me
my heart is too wide

sick to my stomach
this morning,
tired from putting up a mask
and denying the truth.
this isn’t fair
but mostly for you.
i’ve been feeling sick
but i should help myself
not call you.
nothing left to say
because we both know
we’re still not over it.

your laugh still echoes, clear as day,
a melody i’d know miles away.
yet now, it’s distant, faint, untied,
like a shadow of the time we tried.

“don’t be a stranger,” you softly said,
but the weight of it filled me with dread.
isn’t it strange how that plea is spun
when the stranger’s thread has already begun?

a last act of desperation, so bare,
a whisper thrown into empty air.
we both knew what it really meant,
a way to hold on when the ties were spent.

now you’re someone i barely know,
a flicker of light from long ago.
i wonder, would you recognize me?
or has time blurred what used to be?

“don’t be a stranger,” the words still ache,
a promise we couldn’t help but break.
yet your laugh remains, sharp and true,
a stranger’s gift i still hold onto.

i told you i was working out
and you said, “wait, you work out?”
you didn’t mean it like that,
of course,
but it still stung.
and you didn’t mean to hurt me,
but i can’t shake the feeling that i’m not enough.
i shouldn’t have to prove
that i’m strong enough
because i never am.

it’s totally okay to go to bed a little hungry

i tell myself

i drain him.
i know it.
and still,
i stay.

i say i’m trying,
but really,
i’m cracking.
i’m drowning
with his lungs
in my chest.

next i’ll bleed
through his arms,
sob
through his eyes,
wreck
what’s left
of his heart.

i was never
meant
to be held.

of all the people i’ve learned to disappoint,
none have been as cruel as me.
a jury of one, gavel in hand,
i recite my faults like scripture.

i live in a house i’ve built of mirrors—
every reflection a version i loathe.
the walls don’t crack,
but i do,
trying to escape the frame.

even my shadow turns its back.

the vacuum hums,
and i feel it in my chest—
a restless kind of anger,
like a match about to strike.

maybe it’s because the sound
reminds me of yelling,
of my mom’s voice tearing
through the air like it had teeth.
when i hear it now,
i want to scream back,
but there’s no one here to blame.

the only time i can stand it
is when my hands are on the handle,
when i’m in control of the noise.
maybe that’s the metaphor:
it’s not the sound,
but the power to make it stop.

maybe one day, we’ll be stronger,
not measuring our worth in broken promises,
not testing our willpower like it’s a game
we were never meant to win.

maybe one day, the nights won’t stretch so long,
filled with caffeine and quiet ache,
or sharp edges and softer regrets,
as we wait for something to change.

i can’t promise to stop,
and neither can you,
but maybe one day,
we won’t have to.

my sadness grows like ivy,
quiet, tenacious,
weaving itself through the seams of my ribs
until i mistake the ache
for architecture.

i wake in a room with no corners,
only echoes.
the air is damp with memory,
and something hums beneath the floorboards—
a sound like
what if.

rain leaks in through the ceiling
but never wets the ground.
i open the windows
to let in a sky that won’t look me in the eye.
it’s always dusk here,
somewhere between forgetting and too-late.

the mirror won’t speak anymore.
i ask it: am i still a girl
or just the shell she wore
before the flood?

in the dream,
i am made of wax
and someone keeps lighting matches.

i want someone to see through my mask,
to catch the lie when i say it,
to notice the way my hands shake
when i say i’m fine.

i want someone to look past the smile,
past the jokes, past the easy nods,
to press just hard enough
that i have no choice but to break.

because i think i need to.
because i think i want to.
because i don’t know how to ask.

the morning sun fools you into hope
but then the afternoon drags you down
and nighttime leaves you feeling alone
mornings should be a fresh start
but it’s the same endless loop

i’ve become
the shape of water.
i mold to rooms
i don’t belong in,
fill cracks
in other people
just to keep from spilling.

no one sees
how close i am
to evaporation.
how heavy i feel
in a glass too full
of silence.

they think
i’m calm
because i don’t make noise,
but grief has no splash
when it sinks like this.

i’ve learned to drown
quietly.

he told me his sister tried to die,
and i sat there, silent,
holding my own secret like a stone
in my throat,
wishing i could tell him
but terrified he’d hate me for it.

i felt
happy
today

i will not
let myself
ruin it

i feel like i’m never enough,
like no matter what i do,
it’s not enough to matter.
but at the same time,
i’m too much.
too intense,
too complicated,
too hard to handle.
it’s like i’m stuck in between,
too much, yet not enough.
and that makes me wonder
if i’m worth it at all.

all i want is to die

i used to need you like air,
sneaking away just to see your name light up my screen.
now i sit in the same room, same noise, same routine,
but without you, there’s nothing to run to.
instead, the cuts burn beneath my sweats,
a different kind of craving,
a different kind of absence.
i don’t reach for my phone anymore,
just press my hands to my legs and wait for it to pass.

bandaids on my wrist.
i wish they worked.
i wish i did.

i wish the air smelled
like summer did four years ago.
chlorine and asphalt after rain,
sunburnt skin and something sweet.

i spend each winter
longing for those days.
but when summer comes,
it never quite fits right,
like a song i used to love
but can’t remember the lyrics to.

my summers are okay now
but they feel like echoes,
fading, distant,
never loud enough
to drown out the missing.