My heart floats in the hollow between beats,
a weightless thing, neither here nor gone,
left in the purgatory of almosts and maybes.

Time drips slow, like sap from a wounded tree,
every second stretched thin,
every breath a whisper of what could be.

Hope dangles, fragile and frayed,
a spider’s thread trembling in the wind,
unsure if it will hold or snap
under the weight of a longing unspoken.

I do not bleed, I do not weep—
I simply linger,
caught in this timeless pause,
my heart in suspended animation,
waiting for the whisper of her touch,
the warmth of her voice,
to pull me back to life.

I’m enslaved by my unrequited love affair,
a prisoner of my own yearning,
caught in a cage where her name echoes.
Each thought of her is a bar,
each memory a chain,
and yet I hold on,
gripping the pain like it’s all I have.

Her silence is deafening,
a void that swallows my whispers.
Her glances—if they happen—
are fleeting,
like the breeze brushing past
but never lingering.
I am the shadow she doesn’t notice,
the tide that reaches
but is forever pushed back
by the moon of her fears.

She wears her worry like armour,
and I, the fool,
dream of breaking through
while knowing I am the thing
she will not reach for.
The sharp tongue of another
stands guard at her gate,
and I wonder,
would she dare unlock it
if the world allowed?

But here I am,
enslaved,
building a shrine out of longing,
kneeling at the altar of her indifference.
I love her,
and in this prison,
I will serve my sentence.

My love for you is messy, like ink spilled on an unfinished letter, seeping into every word I try to write but smudging all meaning. It is uneven, unruly—a garden overtaken by wild vines, thorns scratching my hands even as I reach for the blooms. It doesn’t fit neatly into stanzas or sentences; it trips over itself, spills over the edges, stains the spaces between.

This love is tangled—knots of yearning, frayed by fear, stitched back together with hope. It’s unpolished and imperfect, like a song sung out of tune, but sung loudly, recklessly, because I can’t keep quiet. I can’t keep still.

It’s the chaos of a room after laughter has exploded there, after arguments have torn through, after the silence of forgiveness has settled like dust. My love is fingerprints on windows and paint splattered on the floor—evidence of care that’s never careful, a masterpiece that never quite finishes.

I want you to know this: I don’t love you neatly. I love you as the ocean loves the shore, relentless and disordered, dragging pieces of myself to you and pulling pieces of you back into me. It’s messy, yes—but it’s endless.

Her sneers cut like invisible razors,
slivers of disdain slicing through the air,
the silence swelling with unspoken judgments.

Each twist of her lip is a verdict,
a dismissal of the things I am,
a shadow cast over the fragile corners
where I hold my own worth.

Her eyes, sharp as broken glass,
reflect nothing of me,
only the cold echo of her discontent,
a tide that pulls my spirit under.

I feel it in my chest—
a tightness,
as though the air around me
is hers to withhold,
and I am left gasping
in the storm of her unkindness.

Yet still, I stand,
weakened but unbowed,
seeking in the ruins of her scorn
some thread of strength
that does not rely on her mercy.

Unrequited love is a silent predator, an unrelenting force that seeps into the marrow of your being, corrupting both body and soul. It begins subtly, a tender ache born of longing, a wistful glance at a future that only one heart can see. But it doesn’t remain gentle; it festers, growing malignant, feeding on hope and devouring every vestige of self-worth. Like a cancer, it takes root in the quiet places, spreading through veins that once pulsed with life, until every thought, every breath, is tainted by the agonizing knowledge of love unreturned.

It poisons the mind first, weaving a tapestry of obsession and self-doubt. “Why am I not enough?” becomes a refrain, repeated in the echo chambers of sleepless nights. The beloved, oblivious or distant, looms like a deity, unattainable and perfect, while the lover becomes smaller, crushed beneath the weight of their own inadequacy. Every smile not meant for them is a dagger, every word not whispered in their direction a fresh wound.

The body follows, betraying its host as if complicit in the torment. Appetite wanes, sleep becomes elusive, and the once-vibrant energy of life dissipates, replaced by a hollow, gnawing exhaustion. The heart, overburdened by the weight of emotion, beats slower, each pulse a struggle against the suffocating grip of despair.

And yet, the cruelest aspect of unrequited love is its paradoxical sustenance. It thrives on the very hope that it destroys, drawing strength from fleeting glimmers of possibility—a glance, a word, a memory replayed until it loses all meaning. The lover becomes a prisoner, shackled by a chain of their own making, each link forged from moments that the other has long since forgotten.

In the end, unrequited love consumes all. It leaves the body fragile, the soul fractured, and the heart a barren wasteland where once vibrant dreams took root. Yet even in its devastation, it teaches a brutal lesson: that love, when unreturned, is not a gift but a burden—a fire that burns brightly but leaves only ash in its wake.