is everyone else broken like me,

just better at hiding it??



or is everyone else okay,

except for me??

how do i go back to when i was happy…?

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.

the alarm rings, and she’s already spent
dragging her feet through the weight of the day
a mountain of tasks, a future of discontent
but they wonder—what price does she pay?

her body aches, no, it pleads for rest
her mind’s a storm, one too loud to hear
she always tries her hardest, she always gives her best
but she’s drowning in a sea of fear

the nights are worse, with no space to breathe
thoughts that are like chains, pulling her down low
she stares at the ceiling, she’s silent beneath
waiting for a peace she’ll never know

each day repeats, each a merciless loop
but still, she rises (she’s afraid to stop)
she carries this burden, this endless troop
praying one day, maybe it’ll finally drop

she counts the hours but they stretch like years
the weight of “what ifs” a constant ache
each smile’s a mask, concealing tears
a fragile facade she’s scared to break

what’s the point, this cycle of pain?
each step forward feels more like a crawl
she screams inside, but it’s all in vain—
no one can hear when she’***** the wall

even her dreams bring little relief
haunted by what she’s left undone
she carries this quiet, invisible grief
watching the days blur into one

maybe she’ll rest when there’s nothing to do
when expectations no longer chase
but for now, she keeps moving through
with this hollow shell, in this endless race

you were the piece of driftwood
keeping me above the waves.
i never noticed how deep the water was
until i let go.

now, the tide pulls heavy,
and i am tired.
sometimes, you find me,
you put your hands beneath my shoulders,
lifting me just high enough
to steal a breath of air.

but you are not mine to hold onto,
so the moment slips,
and the water takes me again.
i am just adrift.

my poems were never
for you.
not for your defense,
not for your approval,
not for you to pick apart
like you know the story.

you see a boy,
i see years of myself.
you see a hero,
i see someone tangled in choices
neither of us could control.
you see an ending,
i see wounds still open.

don’t mistake my grief
for an attack.
don’t mistake my honesty
for jealousy.
i write to breathe,
to survive,
to stay.

so no,
i won’t be quiet.
this is my voice.
you can cover your ears
if you want,
but you’ll never take it from me.

no space in my mind
you are only a haiku
it’s all you deserve

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

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

i tell myself

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.

somehow i knew
i was going to fall in love with you
even years before i did

everything between us
has always felt different
like every smile you give to me is sacred

i first felt it when i saw
the way your eyes shined in the sun
bright and full of promise

i knew it before i could admit it
before love had a name
and it was yours

“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.

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.

i am trying to be okay.
i am trying to be anything but this.
but my hands shake, my mind spins,
and i wonder if i was ever whole to begin with.

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

it’s killing me to know
we will never have what we used to.
nothing will ever be the same again.
no more late-night conversations,
no endless support,
no hopeless love—
at least, not with you.

maybe it’s for the best.
there was pain tangled in you,
and i didn’t care then.
i guess i should now.

but still, the need lingers—
to tell you this,
to share, to overshare,
the way we used to.
but things are different now.
would it be wrong to say it?
would it even matter?

it feels pathetic,
writing this like i lost you,
like you were ever mine to lose.
but it still feels like heartbreak,
even though your heart
was never in it like mine was.

i think i was your priority once.
oh, how times have changed.
and sometimes, i wish i could go back—
i was sad, lonely, drowning,
but i had you.
it might have been enough for me,
but it was never enough for you.

now i try to replicate what we had,
but nothing ever fits.
it still stings when you joke
about how your friends think we’re dating,
because maybe we could have been.
but we weren’t.

i don’t love you.
but i used to.
and i don’t love you anymore—
but i wish i did.

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

starting tomorrow,
everything will be okay.
not because the world will shift,
or because the storms will stop,
but because i said so.

i’ve whispered it into the cracks
of my breaking heart,
etched it into the sky
that feels too heavy to hold.

i don’t believe it yet,
not fully,
but maybe if i say it enough,
the weight will lighten,
the sun will stay a little longer,
and the darkness will lose its grip.

starting tomorrow,
i’ll keep saying it.
and maybe, one day,
it’ll be true.

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.

i still remember the first time.
i was fourteen.
things were starting to break.
friends turning distant,
the girls who used to carry me
now looking the other way.

i grabbed a pair of kids’ scissors.
they were blue.
my cheeks were soaked with tears.
i had never done this before,
but i had heard about it.

i put the blade to my wrist.
it hurt.
a lot.
but i did it again.
and again.

we made up the next day.
everything seemed okay again.
but i didn’t stop.
i liked the sting,
going to school with it still burning.

blue scissors turned into
pocket knives,
kitchen knives,
blades from pencil sharpeners.
i cried when nothing came out.

and later,
when my whole arm went numb,
i didn’t stop.
i think i liked that, too.
i don’t know why.

i still have the blue scissors.

something is wrong with me—
i’ve taken more naps in the past five days
than i’ve taken in the past five years.
it feels like my body is trying to stop time,
but the clock keeps ticking anyway.

he’s not broken like me,
so i hide my cracks—
afraid he’ll see the light
slipping through.

i may have dug the hole
but you pushed me into it
now i’m stuck down here
buried in this mess

yeah, call me a ****.
it must be why i’m not only afraid of intimacy,
but any sort of physical touch as well.

please

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.

i can feel myself
becoming obsessed
with the absence of him.

refresh,
check again,
scroll,
wait.

he isn’t writing.
it’s not often when he does.
still, i claw through silence,
digging with ****** fingers
for something
left behind.

it feels pathetic.
i feel pathetic.
but the need
outweighs the shame.

so i check again.
and again.
and again.