do you know the weight of silence when no one’s looking?
what is the measure of a smile you didn’t mean to give?
how much of yourself have you left behind, scattered in others’ lives?
do you ever wonder if they notice the holes where you used to be?

ff love feels like drowning, is it love at all?
can you hate your reflection and still call it yours?
when the sun rises, does it ever tire of burning?
and when you cry, do the tears feel like betrayal or release?

what do you hold onto when the world demands too much?
is it possible to love without losing something of yourself?
can a heart break in slow motion, or does it only shatter all at once?
and if the pieces fit together again, are they still the same?

who decides what it means to be enough?
do they ever ask if you’re tired of trying?
when you give and give, how do you tell where you end?
and when the stars die, do they know they were beautiful?

please

we marched in time,
feet hitting pavement
like the heartbeat we used to share.
the sun pressed down,
but we joked through it,
like nothing had ever broken.

your tap on my back
when i swayed
said more than words,
like you still notice
when i’m not okay.

our saxes pointed forward,
but we kept glancing sideways,
as if the past might fall
from the corner of our eyes.

we weren’t out of tune,
just playing a quieter song,
one the crowd couldn’t hear.
just us.
still in step.

i think i’m over it now.
not because i’ve stopped missing you,
but because i’ve learned how to carry it,
how to let the weight settle without sinking.

you are still there, in my dark, lonely moments,
in the way i am forever changed,
in the way i almost reach for my phone
before remembering there’s nothing left to say.

maybe i’ll always miss you,
but i think i can live with that.

my name was just letters
until you said it,
soft, certain,
like it belonged to someone worth holding.
you gave it weight,
a kind of beauty
i never saw alone,
until you spoke it,
and it became yours.

remember how you taught me
that pain is proof of my worth?
i always thought it was silly,
but here i am,
one year later,
believing your twisted ideology:
love can only be earned through loss,
pain is the measure of success.
but i’m still here waiting
for my scars to mean something.
i miss that way you made me feel,
the rush,
the chaos,
the fall.
even now i crave the fleeting parts of myself
that fell apart when you touched them,
that frantic, beautiful madness
that kept me gasping for more
even when it left me broken.
because i was yours.
i know i know
it’s all my fault.
maybe if i wasn’t so ******* scared,
scared of letting you know me,
i would’ve stayed.
but then i remember september,
i hope you do too,
because it just proves that we’re unhealthy.
we made each other so depressed.
i think i keep writing about you
because no one
will ever know me like you did,
because i won’t let them.
but that makes me idolize you,
or something.
i should see a therapist.
my summer was fine until you interrupted it!
god, i just want to stop,
stop thinking about you
because i don’t even like you anymore.
things ain’t what they used to be.

the year unwraps its brightest cheer
in frosted lights and candle’s glow,
as christmas waits till we’re all near,
its warmth the last the year will show.

the story saves its sweetest line
for when the pages nearly close,
the song crescendos one last time,
the crowd erupts, the music goes.

the journey feels like it’s complete
when weary feet at last arrive,
and even meals reserve their treat
for final bites that make us thrive.

why does the best so often wait,
as if to tease, as if to mend?
perhaps it’s just life’s quiet way
of saying joy is worth the end.

“are you okay?” they always ask,
and i nod, my answer rehearsed.
“i’m alright,” i say, though inside i ache,
the weight of it growing worse.

i wish they’d pause, just for a beat,
to catch the truth behind my eyes,
but they take my words and move along,
unaware of my quiet lies.

i want to say, “no, i’m not fine,”
to let my walls finally break,
but my voice betrays me every time,
and “alright” is all i can fake.

how did it become so hard to speak,
to let someone see my pain?
i’m tired of pretending, but i don’t know how,
so i say “alright” again.

how can he say he loves me,
when he doesn’t know the weight i carry,
the reasons i move like a shadow,
folding myself small to fit the shape of his world?

he doesn’t know the lines that spill out of me
when the night turns its back,
the words that stitch my breaking heart
into something passable, something whole.
he hates poetry.
he doesn’t know it’s the only thing keeping me here.

he says i seem happier today,
but that’s only the mask holding steady,
only the cracks i’ve learned to patch
with practiced hands and a trembling smile.
does he notice the moments i falter,
when the mask threatens to slip?
or does love mean looking away?

he doesn’t know me.
he doesn’t understand that every laugh is a compromise,
every kiss, a sacrifice.
he doesn’t see the pieces i’ve buried
so no one else has to look at them.
how can he love what he can’t see?

and yet, he stays.
why does he stay?
does he think i’m a puzzle to solve,
a mystery waiting to unfold?
or is he just as lost as i am,
clinging to something that feels like love,
even when it’s not?

and if i asked him to read me,
to trace the lines i write in the dark,
would he hate me too?
would he still say he loves me
if he finally knew?

it’s snowing,
but not enough to cover the ground,
not enough to stick.

just like me—
falling, trying to matter,
but never enough.

it’s march now,
and i’ve never been so hopeful,
hopeful that what i feel is just temporary.
i’m tired of waiting for the warmth,
tired of feeling like i’m stuck in this cold.
i want to feel something other than numb,
to not feel like i’m just drifting through days.
is it too much to ask for the weight to lift?
to feel alive again,
to stop pretending i’m okay?
maybe the sun will help,
maybe it won’t,
but i’m begging for something to change.

i wait for my sister’s breath to steady,
for dreams to pull her far from me—
because i can’t let her see this,
can’t let her know
that i am not whole.

i almost asked for help today
but my throat caught the words
before they could leave
it’s easier to smile than explain

i almost didn’t do my homework
but the guilt got too loud
so i scribbled half-answers at midnight
hoping no one would notice i’m slipping

i almost told my friend i miss them
but what if they don’t feel the same?
so i double-tapped their post instead
like that’s supposed to mean something

i almost felt okay for a second
laughing too hard at a stupid post
but the quiet came back after
heavier than before

everything’s fine, i guess
that’s what i say when they ask
but inside, it feels like
everything’s almost fine

at least sadness feels honest
when you know why it’s there—
a sharp ache, a clear wound,
a reason to repair.

but these indifferent tears,
falling without a name,
are heavier somehow,
and harder to explain.

i am breaking down,
a flood behind my eyes,
a weight i cannot carry,
a silence i can’t disguise.

the walls feel too close,
my thoughts too loud—
a scream that no one hears
in a room without a crowd.

this is the end.
this is all there is.

i wear the grades like a mask,
convincing everyone but myself.
even in the things i love,
it feels like someone else’s hands
are moving through me,
creating things i don’t deserve.

when will they notice?
when will i?

she’s not in broken pieces.
she’s whole.
like she’s never had to tape herself back together just to get through a day.
her stomach is flat,
but all that’s flat about me
is my humor.
when i try to be enough,
and still fall short.

she’s hilarious.
she knows what to say, always.
how to make people laugh,
how to make him feel heard,
how to end a fight
with a kiss or a joke.
me?
i freeze.
i shut down.
i say the wrong thing,
or nothing at all.

she can argue with him
and still make him feel loved.
i argue and feel like
i’ve already lost.
she knows how to be fire and warmth.
i’m just scared of being
too much heat,
or not enough.

she can fill his bed
like it’s made for her.
like she belongs there.
i flinch at the thought,
afraid my body isn’t
something that could hold comfort.
she fits into all the places
i don’t.

he rests his head on her shoulder,
like it’s the only place peace lives.
with me,
he only watches from a distance,
like i’m something delicate he can break,
or something heavy
he’s too tired to carry.
i am.

she is everything i’m not.
she is confidence,
and comfort,
and beauty,
and laughter.
she is ease.
and i?
i’m just a pause between heartbeats.
i’m just trying to be worth
the space i take up.
she is everything.
and i…
i don’t know what i am.

i wish it was just
you and me,
alone,
forever.

the blade whispers promises
it cannot keep,
and i press,
but it never cuts deep enough
to quiet the storm.

each line carved on my skin
feels like an apology,
to myself,
to the world i’m hiding from,
to the guilt that follows
like a shadow i can’t escape.

i tell myself this is the last time.
that i’ll find another way,
but the ache is relentless,
and the silence inside me grows louder,
begging for release.

i want to stop.
i want to believe
there’s more to me than this,
but for now, i sit with the shame,
and the fragile hope
that one day,
i’ll learn how to heal.

i am the only one who knows how quietly i am disappearing

i could fill a library full of novels about you

i sit in classrooms where futures are mapped
like road trips with no tolls, no dead ends,
just open highways and endless signs
pointing to anywhere but here.
but my world is smaller,
a pin on the map i cannot pull up,
a radius i cannot expand.
they speak of choices like air,
like water, like something everyone drinks,
but i sip scarcity,
i taste limits on my tongue.
my acceptance letter won’t be a ticket,
no plane, no train, no fresh start—
just a short drive down roads i’ve always known,
to a school that chose me
simply because i had no choice at all.

Today I went for a bike ride.
We’re in a heat wave
So I rode under the cover of dusk,
Listening to the sweet melodies of the crickets.
I didn’t think there’d be another heat wave,
We’re on number four already.
But I guess this is how it is now.
It didn’t used to be like this.
The sky is pink and orange,
The July air smells faintly of smoke
And reminds me of summers long ago.
The kind of summer that I long for,
The one I spend my winter days anticipating,
The kind that I haven’t had in a while.
It’s still sweet,
But not sweet enough.
It didn’t used to be like this.
Remember how we used to bike?
Everyday?
And now I only do it
When I can find the time.
No.
Truthfully,
It’s when I can find the motivation to get off the couch,
And search for the feeling that I once had.
Yet I still can’t find the motivation
To answer all my texts.
Sarah, it didn’t used to be like this.
As the sun sets around me,
I think about how we would race the lingering light,
Praying we’d get you home
Before the light died,
And I wonder
Would that still be the rule
If you had stayed here with me?

am i a poet?
because lately, i don’t think so.
no longer do i have the strength
to write more than a couple lines.
all i feel is despair,
and the desperate need to be alive again.
am i even a poet?
maybe i’m not.
maybe i’m just someone
who writes down their pain
and calls it art.

using my nails,
mimicking the feeling of a knife.
it’s not working.
tell me to stop.

was looking under my bed
for a charger
when i came across
the teddy bear you gave me.
i never even ate the candy
that came with it.
not enough time.
that hurt.

i’m not doing well
will someone lend me a word that doesn’t ache?
something simple, something true—
a word to feel whole, just for a moment

i’ve been pretending to be okay all day but all i can think about is cutting

body dysmorphia is a strange thing
it makes getting dressed hard
and loving your body even harder
yet i wish, in the darkest parts of me
that i have it—
if only to explain
why i look like this

november bows out with quiet grace,
its brittle breath dissolving into frost.
the trees stand stripped, bare arms raised,
waving goodbye to what was.

december steps in with a silver grin,
soft snow settling where footsteps fade.
it promises warmth in the cold,
but only if you look close enough.

life is this endless passing,
an overlap of endings and starts.
we shed the old like autumn leaves,
and wear the new like winter’s coat.

somewhere in the shifting winds,
we learn to hold both loss and hope.
november teaches how to let go,
while December whispers, begin again.