i climb the hill,
one foot in front of the other,
the summit in sight,
but no joy waits for me there.
just the echo of a sigh:
it’s over now.

the cheers sound distant,
like they’re meant for someone else.
i smile on command,
a mask as thin as paper.
inside, i collapse, whispering:
it’s over now.

big or small, the finish line comes,
but never the pride.
i carry the weight of relief,
not triumph.
the quiet mantra follows me:
it’s over now.

when did the journey lose its meaning?
when did the end become the only goal?
the cycle turns, and still,
i can’t stop chasing the next hill,
just to whisper, once again:
it’s over now.

i don’t love him, not really.
but i like him a lot.

i don’t like you, not at all.
sometimes, i think i hate you.

but somehow
i still love you.

it’s weird

the bath is quiet,
but not quiet enough.
the water doesn’t burn,
and that disappoints me.

it’s been a week and a half,
eleven days of pretending
my skin doesn’t beg
to be opened.

there is no crisis,
just a low, steady hum
of want.
of ache.
of need.

i don’t want to die.
i just want to bleed.

i wish i didn’t make it so hard to be loved,
didn’t push you all away when the sadness comes,
again and again, like a tide i can’t control.
sometimes i wish you could stay forever,
that the world could stop turning,
and nothing would change.

you’d argue, wouldn’t you?
say, “we love you, of course we do.”
but you don’t know me—
not really, not the pieces i keep hidden.
i don’t even know myself.

i wish i could just be.
be happy, be flawed,
be sad without apology,
angry without shame.
but it’s all harder now,
and i’m clinging to hope
as tightly as i can.

january met december in the folds of a fading year,
a moment stolen between frost-kissed whispers,
their breaths clouding in the air like secrets
too fragile to ever be spoken aloud.

“you feel like me,” january murmured,
“cold, distant, yet burning inside.
you know what it’s like to hold endings in your palms
and pretend they’re beginnings.”

“i know,” december sighed,
“and you—
you know how it feels to start over
when you’re not yet ready to let go.”

they danced on the edges of time,
two mirrors reflecting the same aching soul,
their closeness fleeting, their yearning endless,
bound by something stronger than love—
the cruel rhythm of the clock.

“stay,” january begged,
but december was already fading,
dragged backward by the relentless pull of the seasons.
“i would,” december whispered,
“if only time would let me.”

and so they parted,
leaving their longing scattered like snowflakes
on the bridge between years.

i think of him when i see january,
when i feel december slipping away.
we fit so perfectly, like the edges of a broken year,
but the world didn’t allow us to remain.

i miss him in the spaces where time can’t touch,
in the echoes of all the things we almost were.
like january and december,
i loved him in the quiet moments we stole—
and lost him to the hands of a clock
i couldn’t stop.

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.

every breath that i struggle to breathe is for you

i told her,
“it’s not an eating disorder,
it’s just how i feel.”

but how do i explain
the emptiness that fills me
when i skip a meal,
or the way my stomach twists
like it knows i haven’t earned the right
to be full?

i told her,
“it’s just how i feel,”
but deep down,
i wonder if feelings
can ruin you too.

i want to pull you close
and never let go.
i want to thread my fingers
through your brown hair,
to hear the melody
of your laughter,
like a favorite song
i never get tired of.

there’s something about you
that makes the world quieter.
makes the air easier to breathe.
like maybe i was always meant
to end up here,
in the warmth of your smile.

i don’t need grand gestures or gifts.
just this.
you.
me.
and the kind of love
that makes ordinary days
feel like music.

i wake up,
and the weight is already waiting,
an invisible ache that sinks
into the spaces where joy once was.

everything feels muted,
like the world has dimmed its lights,
leaving me to stumble
through shadows that never shift.

i carry it all—
the quiet expectations,
the loud regrets,
the fear of not being enough.

and yet, i keep walking,
not because i want to,
but because stopping
feels like giving up on something
i haven’t even found yet.

is this what life is meant to be?
a series of steps through exhaustion,
a battle against the voices
that say, “you’ll never escape”?

i am so tired.
of pretending, of pushing, of hoping.
but still, somewhere in me,
a small voice whispers:
“keep going.”

im sorry that this is killing me
and killing you too.
if i wasnt such a *******,
if i didnt bring this up again,
if i didnt stir up old feelings,
if i didnt ******* end things
in the first place.
you should’ve begged me not to go.
because now im with him,
and he’s safe,
but he’s not you.
sometimes i think about
what it would be like to
to finally just kiss you.
but that’s wrong,
i shouldnt think like that.
im sorry,
im really sorry,
this is killing me,
and killing you too.

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?

i thought i was fine
until i saw you smile at her
it shouldn’t hurt
but it does.
i let go of you
long before you let go of me
and somehow
that makes it worse.

today i realized
how easily i can be manipulated
and still
i let it happen

i could fill a library full of novels about you

“i’m not fragile”
i said
through trembling breaths.
“i know”
my mom replied
a little too quickly,
both words filled with pain,
almost like
she was trying to convince herself.
and we both were
pretending it was true.

all i ever do
is lie.

the water greets me, a mirror and a veil,
cold and unyielding, yet somehow forgiving.
with every stroke, my body protests,
screaming in soreness, pleading for stillness.

the lane is endless,
marked by the rhythm of my breath,
a metronome of effort and will.
each lap erases the outside world,
until it’s just me and the silence beneath.

this isn’t about speed, or glory,
it’s a battle of mind and muscle,
against the doubt that rises like waves.
in the water, i am both lost and found.

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.

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.

a secret im too scared to share with anyone
except random strangers on the internet:
i wish i had an eating disorder.
i would be sad
but at least i’d be skinny.

im sorry.
i really am.

how could anyone love an eliza
when it stumbles off my tongue
like it doesn’t belong to me?

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 snowing,
but not enough to cover the ground,
not enough to stick.

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

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.