it’s midnight
i’m drinking hot chocolate
(do you remember?)
and im wondering if things will ever be okay again

you already know how i wish i was a kid again
but then i wouldn’t have met you
so i’ll just sip on my hot chocolate
and think about life with you

sometimes im having a good day
and then i remember
and i remember
and remember

do you remember?
what about our midnight hot chocolate?
or did you forget that?
and did you forget me, too?

the melodies came alive, and so did i
each note a whisper, a soaring cry
my music poured, unbroken and free
thunderous applause—a symphony for me

it’s harder to exist when you feel like you’re just floating.
i tell myself i’m fine, but i’m not.
i’m tired of pretending i’m whole
when i’ve left pieces of myself
scattered in the people i loved
and now i can’t find them anymore.

she called me a ****,
as if the word could sink into my skin
and define the person i am.

but i am not that
(couldn’t be farther than that).
i long for what she can’t see—
a love that is honest,
a connection without walls,
a trust that doesn’t crumble
when the world’s gaze turns sharp.

her words aren’t true,
but they still found their mark,
like arrows tipped with shadows.
it hurts,
not because i believe her,
but because she believed
that tearing me down
was easier than understanding me.

i am not what she said.
i am someone
who loves deeply,
who craves meaning in a world
that so often refuses to give it.
she doesn’t know me,
but i know myself.
snd that has to be enough.

and yet, what hurts the most
is that she knows me.

i love the way snow transforms the world,
makes it cleaner,
brighter,
softer.
it wraps everything in a quiet that feels holy,
like the world is holding its breath
just to listen.

but even snow melts.
it retreats in patches,
revealing the grass,
the cracks in the pavement,
the things i tried to forget beneath the frost.

i think that’s what scares me.
the way beauty can vanish,
the way stillness fades,
how the cold that once felt comforting
can turn to mud in your hands.

nothing stays covered forever.
and maybe that’s the point—
to see what remains
when the snow is gone.

i hold my tongue, i bite my words
afraid they’ll echo, loud and absurd
opening up feels selfish, unkind
like stealing space in someone’s mind

yet you wait there, patient and still
no judgment cast, no force of will
you make it easy to let it pour
to speak the truths i lock in war

i don’t deserve the ease you bring
to air my pain, my guilt, my sting
but here i am, unguarded and free
a fragile soul you choose to see

through my writing, i spill my soul,
each line a bridge, a way to hold
the pieces of me i need to share,
a call to find someone, somewhere.

with every verse, i bare my heart,
a fragile art, a healing start.
in hopes that words can build a space
where souls connect, a shared embrace.

in the quiet moments
when the weight settles
there’s a familiar ache,
a shadow that lingers.

words that echo
with unraveled hopes,
a constant measuring
against an unseen standard.

every effort feels heavy
each smile a mask on my face
whispers of not quite enough,
never enough.

in a crowded room,
even laughter feels distant,
a reminder of the places
i can’t quite reach.

still, i search for a glimmer,
but the weight remains,
shaping who i am
the truth of the matter

i will never be good enough

you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied,
but i kept the silence warm,
kept your name pressed
into the back of my mind,
like a bruise i didn’t want to heal.

i carried the ghost of us,
let it haunt every corner,
let it seep into everything,
because forgetting felt like losing you twice.

but i’m done now.
this is the last poem i write for you,
the last time i dress my pain up
to make it look like love.
you and i are dead,
and i won’t keep trying
to breathe life into a grave.

you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied—
but now i’ll tell myself the truth.

i don’t think i understand the point of love.
it always leaves me hurt—
empty, sad, hollow.
yet, i still keep falling,
as if the crash
will one day
feel like flying.

it must be nice to be a tree,
roots grounded, branches free.
no storms to fear, no choice to sway,
standing tall, come what may.

or maybe like the river’s flow,
carving paths where it will go,
unchallenged in its steady course,
untouched by unfamiliar force.

to walk through life with quiet ease,
a steady wind, an endless breeze.
it must be nice, i sometimes think,
to hold the earth and never sink.

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.

August is the Sunday of summer
A slow, heavy sigh
That drifts over the sun-bleached days,
The bright, lazy hours.
The heat hangs like a memory,
Lazy and heavy,
As if summer itself is reluctant
To slip back into the pages of a calendar, Where days blur into the promise of something else.
The mornings are a bit less forgiving,
The air tinged with the shadow of a classroom,
The soft whisper of new pencils and paper, The hint of structure returning.
August brings a shift,
An undertone of anticipation
That stirs beneath the calm surface,
Like the distant hum of an old alarm clock, Waiting to signal the end of rest,
The beginning of something expected, yet feared.
The long, sun-drenched afternoons
Feel like a final, quiet farewell,
Each day a little more golden,
a little more fragile,
The bright edges of summer
Softening into the muted tones of
The school year to come.
August is the Sunday of summer,
A quiet, nostalgic refrain,
Where every fleeting day
Echoes with the promise of change.
As the sun descends a bit earlier,
And the nights grow cooler still,
August lingers like a gentle reminder
That summer's end is near,
Soft and unspoken  
That the season is changing,
And with it, the slow, heavy sigh
Of summer’s final, golden hours.
August is the Sunday of summer,
A sad, lingering pause
Before the structured rhythm
Of the days that follow,
A silent, reflective bridge
Between the freedom of sunlit days
And the routine soon to reclaim us.

it almost took her once.
the quiet visitor she never called,
the thought that slips in uninvited,
nestles in the corners of her mind,
and waits.

she carries it like a secret,
pressed deep into her aching chest,
a weight no one else can see.
some days, it whispers,
soft as falling leaves.
other days, it roars,
demanding its due.

she doesn’t want to leave,
no, not really.
but she wonders how much longer
she can bear the burden of staying,
if it is even worth it anymore.

they tell her it’s a choice.
they don’t see the fight.
the way her hands tremble
on the edge of surrender,
how her heart pleads
to keep beating.

she survives for now,
but the uninvited waits,
patient as ever,
just beyond the door.

is it worth the weight i bear,
this climb i’m told will lead to more?
for debts and desks, for restless years,
a future i’m not reaching for?

the days grow long, the nights too loud,
the pressure builds, it pulls, it binds.
a whispered thought begins to form,
what’s left for me, what will i find?

but then, a breeze, a song, a smile,
a fleeting joy, a gentle flame.
it cuts the dark, it lifts the weight,
reminds me life is not a game.

perhaps the climb will bring me peace,
or paths unknown that lead to gold.
for in the cracks of heavy stone,
there’s light and love still yet to hold.

it’s my body that bears the proof,
a shoulder torn by the thing i adore.
the water calls me, and i answer,
though it leaves me aching to the core.

isn’t this the way of it?
the things we love demand their price.
a bicep strained, a heart undone,
each lap of joy, a sacrifice.

but i keep coming back,
to the pool, to the pain, to the hope.
even when it hurts, it’s worth it—
a lesson etched in every stroke.

the clock hands circle, slow yet unkind,
stealing the moments i’ll never rewind.
each second a whisper, a truth left unsaid,
a future that waits while the past is widespread.

i write, because i’m not sure who else to be.
i’m 16, but the weight of this world—
it feels heavier than it should be,
like a heart that’s growing old
before it even learns how to beat right.

i don’t feel enough.
not good enough, not strong enough,
not worthy of love, or kindness,
or the friendships i hold so tight
because i’m terrified to let go
even though the grip hurts.

it’s harder to exist when you feel like you’re just floating.
i tell myself i’m fine, but i’m not.
i’m tired of pretending i’m whole
when i’ve left pieces of myself
scattered in the people i loved
and now i can’t find them anymore.

i know, i should be better at letting go.
but how do you stop holding on
to the one person who once made you feel alive
when they’re the same one who now brings you to your knees?

they say time heals everything,
but i think time just buries things deeper.
i bury my emotions in my poetry,
where no one can see the cracks,
where i can pretend
i’m not drowning in my own words.

i’m learning to forgive,
but i still don’t know how to forget.
i give so much,
but it feels like no one gives enough back,
and i wonder if they can ever love me
the way i love them.

i’ve pushed people away
because i’m scared of them leaving first.
i’ve hurt others
because i didn’t know how to handle the mess inside me.
i’ve told lies to protect my heart
and made promises i can’t keep.
but i keep trying to make them feel heard
even when i’m screaming for someone to hear me.

i’m not perfect,
and i don’t expect anyone else to be either.
but how do i find peace in a world
where i’m always trying to make sense of things
that don’t make sense?

i want to be seen,
but not for who i think i am,
but for who i could be.
if i could be free,
if i could just be me,
i’d show you all the pieces i’ve been hiding,
the ones i thought were too broken to share.

but for now, i’ll write
and hope you hear me through these words.
i’ll hold on to the ones who love me
the way i want to be loved
and keep searching for the strength
to let go of the ones who won’t.

maybe one day i’ll find my place.
but until then, i’ll keep writing,
because it’s the only thing
that makes me feel whole.

“this isn’t like you,” they say—
but they don’t know what i’m like

they only see the open hands
the ready smile
the way i crumble into comfort
when their worlds shake too hard

i give, and i give, and i give
until my bones feel hollow
i bend, and i break,
but never in ways they can see
“this isn’t like you,” they say—
but they don’t know what i’m like

they don’t see the nights i lie awake
wishing i could scream “enough!”
but swallowing the words instead
they don’t hear the way my heart shouts
when I finally say no—
and they call it selfishness

“this isn’t like you,” they say—
but they don’t know what i’m like
what i’m like is exhausted
what i’m like is disappearing
what i’m like is someone who wonders
if they’ve ever been seen at all
what am i like?

if they knew, they might ask
“why didn’t you tell us?”
but i’ve tried.
i’ve always tried.
and they only listen
when i’m the version of me
that they need me to be

“this isn’t like you,” they say—
but maybe it’s the only thing that ever was

there are three things that i know
though i wish i didn’t
and i’m sure that knowing them
won’t make it easier

1. i shouldn’t feel this way about you
but here i am
holding onto something i know will hurt me
something i was never meant to hold

2. i always end up feeling more than i should
you know how it is
how one look, one word
turns into a hundred feelings i can’t contain
it’s never just a glance with you
it’s always more
always deeper than it’s supposed to be
and every time it happens
i know i’m crossing a line
but i don’t know how to stop

3. even when i know better
i still want what i’m not supposed to have
i can feel it in the way i move when you’re near
how every part of me leans toward you
even though i’m standing still
i try to step back
but every inch feels like it’s pulling me closer
until i’m tangled in something
i know i can’t untangle

i wish this was easier
a simple choice between right and wrong
but every time i try to turn away
i find myself pulled back in
it’s like i can’t breathe without this ache
this guilt, this hunger
but i can’t seem to let it go either

three things i know
though i wish i didn’t
1. i shouldn’t feel this way about you
2. i always end up feeling more than i should
3. even when i know better
i still want what i’m not supposed to have
and here i am
caught between wanting and knowing
wishing to forget and never forgetting
stuck in the space where i can’t seem to breathe
but i can’t stop wanting you, either

my biggest fear is you seeing me
the way i see myself—
the cracks beneath the surface,
the doubts i file away

i hide my flaws in shadows deep,
but what if you should find
the fractured mirror that i see
when i look inside my mind?

tomorrow, i’ll sit across from someone
whose job is to listen.
i’ll try to speak,
to untangle the mess i carry,
but the words might not come out right.

i’m scared.
scared they’ll dismiss me,
scared they’ll nod politely
but not truly hear.
scared they’ll look at me
like i’m just another 16 year old
with problems that don’t matter.

but what if they do listen?
what if i let them in,
just enough to ease this weight?
what if saying the words
i’ve been too afraid to speak
is the start of something better?

i’m not sure i’ll go.
i’m not sure i’ll stay.
but maybe sitting in that chair
is the first step
toward finding something
i didn’t know i needed.

i told the moon my secrets,
but she turned away.
even the sky,
it seems,
cannot bear the weight of me.

i’m sorry

i don’t know what we are anymore—
a rhythm, offbeat, yet familiar
do you enjoy these conversations,
or am i the one keeping them alive?

sometimes, you laugh like the world is soft
like i’ve found the thread of who you are
other times, i feel the weight of silence
and i wonder if i’ve overstayed my welcome

i was put here to know you (i think)
to listen when others won’t
to care even when you shut me out
you’re more than a friend—
you’re a purpose i can’t explain

but (tell me) is it selfish to stay
if you don’t want me there?
is it selfish to leave,
if i think you might?

if i’m wrong—if you hate me—
just tell me, please (please)
but if there’s even a sliver of truth
that i belong in your life,
don’t let me go

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.

you don’t notice the sun
until it slips below the horizon,
taking warmth and light
to some other corner of the world.

you don’t hear the clock
until the room falls silent,
each tick louder than
the love you took for granted.

you don’t see the magic of childhood
until you’re looking back,
realizing the world was perfect once,
and you didn’t even know.

you don’t feel the weight of silence
until their voice is gone,
the words they don’t say
echoing louder than the ones they did.

you don’t know what you’ve got
until it’s nothing but a memory,
a ghost you can’t outrun,
a lesson learned too late.

you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

you texted me today
asking me how i’ve been
i didn’t have the heart to tell you
that i’m drowning in a sea of thought
crushed beneath the pressure and pain
so i told you i’m good
(as if my arms aren’t littered with scars)
how are you?

i don’t know what to write about if it’s not about you

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

what the **** am i doing here,
chasing shadows, chasing fear.
steps uncertain, paths unknown,
trying to find my way alone.

when i said “i’m fine”
what i meant was “i’m tired”
not of you, but of trying to be
the version of me you could love

when i said “take care”
what i meant was “please stay”
but goodbye is easier when
it doesn’t sound like begging

when you said “i’m sorry”
what you meant was “it’s over”
i caught the silence between your words
the way it wrapped around my throat

and now, when i say nothing
what i mean is everything
i never knew how to tell you
while you were still listening

the loud girl in class
the quiet one online
the secret mental struggles
the aching to feel fine

the too proud athlete
the one who skips PE
the weight of expectations
the fear of never being free

the girl who never studies
the one who always tries
the cracks beneath the surface
the truth behind their eyes

the third of four sisters
the one in their glow
the pressure to be noticed
the reality they’ll never know

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

yesterday, i visited the trainer before swim practice,
shivering in just my suit,
she pushed and prodded,
trying to determine what was wrong with my shoulder.

“lift your arms,” she said,
and as i did,
i noticed her eyes catch the scars.
she looked at me,
then at my arms,
and back again.

today, during class, the phone rang.
i prayed it wasn’t for me.
when my teacher handed me a pass,
my nightmare began:
visit guidance after class.

heart pounding, i stood outside the door,
and kept walking.
how could i explain
that i’m not trying to die—
i just don’t know another way
to carry the weight of living?

tomorrow is coming,
but i don’t know what it holds,
and i’m terrified.

you were never mine,
but god, i wanted you to be.
i wanted to bottle your laugh,
to trace the edges of your grin
like it held the answer
to everything i’ve been missing.

you, with your effortless charm,
your easy way of lighting up the dark.
i was just someone standing too close,
trying to catch the glow.

we were nothing,
and yet, i keep replaying
the moments we almost were.
your voice still echoes in my mind,
a melody i’ll never get to finish.

you are gone now,
and i’ve learned to live
in the absence of your warmth,
but every now and then,
i feel the ghost of you—
and it almost feels like love.