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.

The Quiet of Loving You

I hold you softly,
not in my arms,
but in the hollow spaces between words.
In the silence of a breath
just before it falls into sound,
you are there,
untouched by my trembling need to say your name.

I trace your shadow
in the stillness of a crowded room,
a thousand unspoken syllables
pressed between my teeth.
My gaze lingers where it shouldn’t,
but never long enough for you to notice.

It is not sadness, this silence,
but a garden of secrets,
where every petal blooms in quiet reverence.
I water it with patience,
sun it with longing,
but never dare to pluck the flowers.

Because loving you
without your knowing
feels like a kind of worship—
a prayer meant for no one to hear.
And so I hold it,
this wordless offering,
fragile and infinite
in the cradle of my chest.

I don’t believe
loneliness can stretch further than this—
a taut thread pulled to its breaking point,
and still, it holds.

The night presses in
with no edges to catch me,
only air too thin
to carry my weight.

I speak,
and the words fall soundless,
a language meant for someone
who isn’t here.

The quiet swells,
fills every room,
sinks into my skin.

I wonder if loneliness
has a shape
or if it’s just an absence,
a shadow too clever
to cast light.

I don’t believe
I could be more unseen
than I am now—
a ghost who hasn’t died,
a presence forgotten
by the space it once filled.

Romance has died in me today.
Its breath, once warm,
now escapes in cold sighs,
the ache no longer sweet,
the song no longer sings.

The roses I held close
wilted, thorns dull against my palms—
even their pain feels distant now.

Love’s fire, they said,
never truly fades,
but here I stand,
surrounded by its gray ash,
its promises burnt,
its whispers gone silent.

The words I once poured
like wine into waiting cups,
spill no more—
the bottle, empty.

It isn’t anger,
nor sorrow,
but a quiet hollow
where romance once bloomed.

Perhaps it will return,
a seed carried by some kinder wind,
but for now,
the garden lies bare