A room in the basement,
A room that knew too much,
Too dark to leave behind.
I was tired,
Heavy with sorrow.
She never asked why—
Never asked me to speak.
The clutter in my mind didn’t matter to her.
I was dragged onto the bed,
A hand pressing into my back,
My body slammed against the wall,
Her rage leaving marks on my skin—
A scar that won’t heal.

"I don’t want to do this, but here we are."
A whisper, lost in the chaos.
Words echo through the house,
Where love is twisted,
Where kindness never crosses the doorstep.

"I’m not sure I can... ma yelled at me again."
For the smallest things,
For being human.
Her voice drowns out my heart,
Slicing through the silence.
She tells me I'm a failure,
A burden,
A disappointment.
She says she’ll pull me from school,
Keep me locked away.
Send me far from everything I dream.

She hit me,
And still, she says,
"You'll never leave. You’re going to fail."
But where do I go when pain is all I know?
When bruises map my body,
And rage paves my path?
I cry,
Not for the sting of her hand,
But for the death of my dreams.
Her words press down,
Venom laced with promises of no future.
"You’re just going to be a ghetto rat,"
She spits at my dreams of college,
And I feel it sting,
Because maybe she's right.
Maybe she’s serious about keeping me here.

I falter,
Assignments abandoned—
Not from carelessness,
But confusion,
And the walls close in.
When she touches me,
It’s not a caress,
But a painful grip,
Pinching, scratching.
Her voice hisses like a snake:
"Stop acting so self-conscious. You look ******* stupid."
Her hands on my body,
"Why does my touch make you uncomfortable? I’m not hurting you, stop it."
Uninvited,
Unwanted.
But I stay silent,
Too afraid,
Too small beneath her control.

Why does my body feel like it belongs to her?
Why does she think it’s okay to touch me
Like I’m nothing but a possession to bend to her will?
"What’s wrong, my perfect, spoiled little *****?"
Her voice smooth as poison,
"This is what you wanted."
A trap she set long ago.

I try to hold my head high,
But the ceiling feels lower every day.
Her anger shakes me,
Her wrath pushing me into the wall.
She screams at every mistake,
Even when I’m just trying to breathe.

"Z is going to be a tattooed dolled-up ****."
Her words sear,
Carving into my skin.
No matter how hard I try,
I will never be enough.
"I think you’d all be better off without me,"
Her voice trembles,
Heavy with her own misery.
But her despair is hers alone.
I’m just trying to survive the day.

"She’s not going to get a job, she’s lazy like I am."
Her words break me,
Glass shards piercing deep.
She doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me—
Only sees her failures reflected in me.
A mirror of everything she fears.
And I am not the reflection I want to be.

No matter how loud she screams,
Her hurt doesn’t change the truth.
I am more than the sum of her expectations.
"I’m just the nasty ***** that nags and yells at everyone, aren’t I?"
Her words echo,
But they are not mine.

The house is never quiet,
Not when the walls scream with her rage.
"We’ve been in a bump since my dad moved in."
A home built on silence,
Where no one speaks the truth,
Fearing the storm it might wake.
"I feel like we’re doing all this just to get X into high school and college."
But what of me?
What of my hopes that fade in the corners of my mind?
What of the quiet nights
When I hear her rage but never her love?

"Maybe we should’ve never adopted Y and Z."
I drown in her words,
In the pit of their failures.
Because I’m not just a kid—
I’m a punching bag.
And her fists land on my body,
But the damage runs deeper than skin.

"I don’t care if I ruin it all, I’m leaving."
Her rage blinds her to the harm she causes.
Her fists, her words—
They shatter me.
I am left alone in the wreckage,
Wondering how to rebuild myself,
How to make her see me.

In my dreams, I flee,
But the house always calls me back,
With its cold floors and walls that whisper lies.
"We’re messy people,"
She says.
But it’s not the mess in the house—
It’s the mess in our hearts.

A house built on silence,
A body that wasn’t mine,
And a truth still hidden between the walls,
I’m still trying to speak.

It is hard being a child,
let alone an adult.
I hate growing up.
I always hated the thought of it,
of leaving childhood behind—
when it was never a place
I could rest.

I was promised something better—
a new life beyond that god-awful trailer,
where the walls were too thin
to contain the hurt.
I was promised love,
safety,
a body and mind
without bruises.
I was promised the world.

But promises are just words,
and words crumble under fists.

I am not ungrateful for what I have,
but I am ungrateful
for how I was raised—
how I was brought into this world
only to be broken by it.
Adoption was supposed to be a rescue,
but even kindness can wear a mask.
And when the masks fell,
the truth cut deeper
than any wound I’d known before.

Now, I carry more stories,
more bruises
from my adopted parents
than my biological ones.
More words screamed at me,
until I was so weak,
I wanted to leave.
A child, eight years old,
should never think about dying.

Parents should be a sanctuary,
a refuge.
Mine were a battlefield.
I learned to fear growing up—
to fear failure,
to fear never being enough.

I have accepted it all:
the blows,
the scars,
the pain repackaged as love.
Because love
was something foreign
until I met my first true friend,
my first real love.

With family,
there was only war.
And in their house,
I counted the days
I thought about dying—
more than I can recall.
They failed to protect me,
to shield me from others’ harm,
and their answer
was always the same—
an empty hug,
a hollow “It’s going to be okay.”

But they never meant it.
In every argument,
they used my scars as weapons,
ripped open old wounds
just to watch me bleed.
If they understand the weight of trauma,
why do they
bring it up
to bury me deeper?

Do they really love me?
I don’t understand,
and I don’t think
I ever will.

I was carrying a castle Lego set,
Walking into the room with hands full,
But the room was messy,
The floor a trap.
I tripped,
A misstep,
And the castle crashed,
A thousand tiny pieces scattered—
Shattered like the calm before the storm.

Her eyes burned with fury.
And then—
The first blow hit.
A slap to my face.
Her hand, heavy and fast,
Like a thunderclap that split the air.

She grabbed me by my hair,
Fingers tight like claws,
Yanking me down,
Screaming.
Punches to my head,
Fists that felt like bricks.
And when I didn’t fall fast enough,
She slammed my face into the wall.
The concrete cold and unforgiving.

She didn’t stop.
She kicked me.
Stomped on me.
Before she shed the weight,
She weighed two hundred pounds or more—
And her anger had no limits.

She climbed on top of me,
Crushing me beneath her,
Screaming in my ear—
Words that were sharper than the blows.
A blur of rage and hatred,
And I couldn’t breathe.

My father,
He came when he heard the noise,
Dragged her off me,
Locked her away,
But the damage was done,
And my body bore the marks.
Bruises, scratches, teeth imprints,
Pain that carved its memory deep.
But the hate didn’t stop there.

I remember everything.

When I lied about something—
Something I can’t even recall now.
And she made me clean—
The whole house.
From top to bottom.
Exhausted,
I collapsed into the bathroom,
My body aching.

When she found me,
Resting,
She turned the world to fire.
The beating began again—
She screamed,
Threw appliances at me,
Shoved me against the walls.
My head was shoved into the toilet,
Into the sink—
Water and metal,
Cold and suffocating.

She bit my ears,
Screamed so loud,
Everything went muffled.
Her words were poison,
Sharp and biting.
The towels hit me,
Wetted and cruel,
Like whips lashing my skin.

She sprayed cleaning products—
In my face,
On my body,
Tears mixing with chemicals.
And I had no escape.

I remember everything.

I remember what it felt like to be nothing but the target of her rage,
Her disappointment wrapping itself around me like chains.
I remember her words—
Filling the empty spaces in the house,
Breaking me down,
Every scream,
Every hit,
Until all I could do was survive.

But the hardest part—
Was that even after it all,
I still wanted her love.
And I couldn’t escape her shadow,
Even when the bruises healed.

I often speak in silence,
when words are too loud,
and the world around me feels
like too much,
a symphony of voices I can't tune out.

"You’re more than you know,"
you said.
But the mirror doesn’t see
what I’ve hidden in the corners
of my own heart—
the fear,
the longing,
the doubts that won’t stay quiet.

“I miss you,”
you whispered,
and it felt like a promise
I could barely hold onto
but still wanted to.
How do you love something
you don’t believe you deserve?

I wear a mask,
my smile is too practiced,
my laughter just a little too loud
to drown out the questions,
the insecurities.
“You’re everything I could have wished for,”
but what does that mean
when I am still learning
how to be enough for myself?

In the quiet, I wonder
if I could ever be
the girl you see me as,
so strong,
so sweet,
yet I break in places
no one can see.

“Take my hand,” you said,
but I’m afraid my own hands are shaking.
How do I give you the world
when I am still trying
to understand it myself?

“You’re breathtakingly amazing,”
but I wonder if you see
the cracks where I am still
a little girl,
waiting for someone to tell me
it’s okay to be both beautiful and broken.

“I miss you even after just a few hours apart,”
and maybe,
just maybe,
this time,
the love I feel
can be enough
to fill the spaces I’ve let empty for so long.

They told me I was loved.
Said it like a fact, like a given, like air.
And I nodded, let the words settle on my skin
but never sink in.

Because love—love is hands reaching,
but understanding?
Understanding is knowing why mine pull away.

I sat in rooms full of people who swore they cared,
but no one asked why my laughter always came half a second too late,
why silence fit me like a second skin.

They called me beautiful, said I was smart,
but never saw the way I flinched at echoes of my own thoughts.
They held me when I cried, but no one ever asked
what the tears were trying to say.

I used to think I was ungrateful—
to have love but still feel lost.
But now I know:
Love can be loud, can be warm, can be everywhere—
and still not speak your language.

So if you’ve ever felt this way,
like you exist in translation,
like love is the ocean but you are still thirsty—
I need you to hear this:

You are not wrong for wanting more.
You deserve to be understood.

Beauty, soft as morning light,
a golden glow, a breath so bright.
It lingers sweet on petals fair,
a whispered song that stirs the air.


It rests in laughter, light and free,
the way the waves embrace the sea.
In fleeting glimpses, lovers’ sighs,
the stars reflected in one’s eyes.


It lives in youth, in uncreased skin,
the way a tale of love begins.
It hums in silks, in mirrored glass,
a spell we chase but cannot grasp.


But beauty’s hands are laced with thread,
of woven myths and words unsaid.
The colors shift, the echoes fade,
and shadows creep where light once played.


They carve the lines upon our face,
remind us all: this is a race.
The painted lips, the powdered cheeks,
a mask we wear, afraid to speak.


The whispers turn to cries at night,
"Be softer, smaller, more polite."
"Be brighter, bolder, never old."
"Be worth the weight of all this gold."


The hunger grows, the mirror calls,
distorted truth in silver walls.
The scales, the numbers, counting sins,
a war where no one truly wins.


The rose is crushed beneath the hand
that once adored its beauty grand.
What once was soft turns sharp and cruel,
a hollow voice, a hollow rule.


And so the petals drift away,
the laughter lost in yesterday.
But beauty never learned to stay—
it flits, it fades, it slips away.


Yet in the ruin, something new,
beyond the glass, beyond the view—
a beauty raw, untouched by chains,
not drawn by hands, nor bound by names.


A beauty real, unshaped, unscorned,
not bought, nor sold, nor torn, nor worn.
Not weight, nor skin, nor youth, nor face—
but fire, wild, and full of grace.

75. Just a thought. A whisper. A what-if.
74. I test the weight of silence, hold it in my hands.
73. Everyone talks. No one listens.
72. I count cracks in the ceiling, pretend they are escape routes.
71. My name sounds foreign when they say it.

70. I make a list of things I’ll miss. It’s short.
69. I start another list—things I won’t. It’s endless.
68. Someone asks if I’m okay. I forget how to answer.
67. I laugh too hard. It feels like breaking.
66. I cry in the shower. The water drowns the sound.

65. Sleep is a stranger.
64. I lose my appetite. Even hunger forgets me.
63. The mirror doesn’t recognize me anymore.
62. The days blur, smear together like wet ink.
61. I hear my own voice and wonder if it’s mine.

60. I rip old photos apart, scatter them like dead leaves.
59. My heartbeat is a drum in an empty hall.
58. I start talking to shadows. They answer back.
57. I see movement in the corners of my eyes.
56. The walls breathe when I’m not looking.

55. My skin feels too tight.
54. My thoughts are too loud.
53. I try to scream but forget how.
52. I write a note, then another, then another.
51. I set them on fire. The flames flicker like old memories.

50. Halfway there. A relief. A curse.
49. My hands shake. I clench them into silence.
48. I step outside. The world moves without me.
47. The stars blink. I wonder if they’re watching.
46. I lose another hour to the void.

45. My name no longer belongs to me.
44. My body feels borrowed.
43. I stop answering messages.
42. They stop sending them.
41. I bite my tongue to taste something real.

40. I forget what my voice sounds like.
39. Music doesn’t move me anymore.
38. The wind howls. I howl back.
37. I lose track of days.
36. The countdown is all that’s left.

35. I lock the door.
34. I lose the key.
33. I stop checking the time.
32. Time stops checking on me.
31. The air is thick. I choke on nothing.

30. They say people can tell. No one does.
29. My chest feels empty, like I misplaced something vital.
28. I press my ear to the ground, listen for a heartbeat.
27. Nothing.
26. Nothing.

25. The sky is too bright. It hurts my eyes.
24. The moon is too full. It mocks me.
23. I turn off my phone.
22. No one notices.
21. I am a ghost before I am even gone.

20. I stop pretending.
19. I stop hoping.
18. I stop waiting for someone to save me.
17. I stop wanting to be saved.
16. I stop.

15. The countdown is a prayer.
14. The countdown is a promise.
13. The countdown is all I have.
12. The weight of it is crushing.
11. I welcome it.

10. I can’t remember why I started.
9. I can’t remember who I was before.
8. The world is underwater. I am drowning.
7. I let the tide take me.
6. I let go.

5. The choice is already made.
4. I exhale.
3. I close my eyes.
2. The world fades.
1.

It starts with fireworks,
explosions of light
too bright to question,
too dazzling to resist.
Every word is a spark,
every touch a flame
burning so beautifully
you forget the heat can hurt.

They paint the world in colors
you didn’t know you could see,
build castles in the clouds
with promises that taste
too sweet to swallow.
You believe in the fairy tale
because their voice makes it real,
because the story
is what you’ve always wanted to hear.

But the glitter fades,
the echoes grow cold,
and the castle crumbles
when the walls were never meant to stand.
You find yourself
in the ashes of their affection,
trying to piece together
what was real
and what was only a game.

The silence comes next—
a void where their voice once lived.
You wonder if it’s your fault,
if the spark died because
you didn’t burn brightly enough.
But the truth whispers slowly:
it was never your fire they craved,
only the power
of holding the match.

—a poem for the broken quiet of Hello Poetry

This was meant to be a haven—
ink-stained sanctuary
where silence could bloom into verse,
where hurt could heal
in soft stanzas and shared breath.

But now—
every scroll feels like stepping
through shattered glass.
The comment threads,
once stitched with kindness,
now rip apart at the seams.

Accusations buzz like hornets,
each reply a stinger
piercing deeper into fear.
Names thrown like knives,
defense and damnation
fighting for dominance
in spaces meant for peace.

I see poems
not of love, not of loss,
but of monsters
lurking behind usernames,
of children caught
in digital snares,
of moderators gone silent,
as if safety were a forgotten draft
left unpublished in the void.

I haven’t spoken—
not yet.
But I feel the shadows
pressing against my page,
wondering if one day
they’ll find me,
slip through my poems
with sugary words
and hollow hearts.

What if I mistake poison for praise?
What if I smile at a trap
thinking it’s just another reader
kind enough to care?

I haven’t been touched by it—
yet.
But that doesn’t mean
the fire isn’t creeping closer.

I write in hope,
but I carry worry like watermark—
invisible until held to light.

So I ask,
not just for myself,
but for every young poet
finding their first courage here:

Where are the watchers?
Where is the warning bell?
Who guards the gates
when predators write poetry, too?

I want to believe
this space can be better.
That we are louder than the silence
that lets evil grow.
That we are not just witnesses—
but protectors,
word-warriors
with sharpened pens.

Because poetry should not be
a hunting ground.

And no poem
should end in a wound.

Dear little one,
I wish I could tell you who you were meant to be,
but I never had the chance to meet you.
You were supposed to laugh without hesitation,
to dance barefoot in the grass,
to wake up without the weight of the world
pressed against your chest.

You were supposed to dream
without fearing the fall,
to believe in love
without flinching at its touch.
You should have known kindness
without conditions,
safety without apologies,
home without war.

But they took you from me
before you ever had a chance to breathe.
They stole your voice
and left me with the echoes,
turned your soft hands into fists,
your open heart into armor.

I search for you in the quiet,
in the spaces between my ribs,
but all I find are ghosts—
memories that were never made,
a life that was never lived.

I carry you still,
even in the ruins,
even in the spaces where childhood should have been.
And if I could,
I would build you a home in my arms,
rock you to sleep with a lullaby
you were never sung.

I cannot bring you back,
but I can promise this:
I will live for us both.
I will find the softness the world denied you,
and I will whisper your name
into the wind—
so you know you were never forgotten.

Oh, restless ache that stirs my soul,
a whisper woven in the wind,
you call with voices soft and low,
yet echo deep, yet burn within.

You stretch beyond my mortal hold,
a silver thread, a trembling light,
a distant hand I cannot grasp,
yet reach for still in endless flight.

To yearn is but to walk the edge,
to chase the dawn, to beg the night,
to thirst for what the stars conceal,
to wander lost yet burn so bright.

You shimmer in the lover’s sigh,
in letters sent but left unread,
in lips that part with words unsaid,
in dreams that wake and turn to dust.

To yearn is but to know the ache
of time that bends but does not break,
of shadows cast by what could be,
of steps retraced through memory.

Oh, yearning, cruel and bittersweet,
you press your weight against my chest,
a longing not for what has been,
but for the dream I never met.

I hold you close, though you are pain,
for you are proof that I still live—
a heart unscarred by hollow days,
a soul that dares, that dares to give.

She has lived, she has wandered,
loved and lost, dreamed and fallen.
She is not untouched by time,
nor unshaken by the past.
But if she stands beside you now,
if she looks at you with eyes that see
not just who you are,
but who you are becoming,
what else matters?

She is not perfect—
neither are you.
Together, you may stumble,
may fumble through the dark,
may misunderstand and misstep.
But if she makes you laugh,
if she stirs your thoughts,
if she is unafraid to be real,
to be flawed, to be human—
hold onto her.

She may not think of you
every moment of the day,
but she will give you the one thing
that costs her most to lose—
her heart.
So handle it gently.
Don’t try to change her,
don’t measure her love against expectation,
don’t ask for more than she can give.

Instead—
smile when she brings you joy,
tell her when she makes you ache,
and when she is gone,
miss her.

I’ve lost count—
was it the fourth winter or the seventh spring
when the silence curled too tightly around my ribs,
and I mistook it for peace?
When the night stopped being a comfort
and started swallowing me whole?

I’ve lost count—
of how many times I’ve stood at the edge of the thought,
toe curling over the ledge,
heartbeat whispering, ”this time, maybe.”
Of how often I’ve written letters I never mailed,
just to prove to myself I was still worth a goodbye.

There were nights I rehearsed my exit
like a prayer no one would answer—
softly, solemnly,
just in case the universe was listening.

I’ve forgotten the shape of my first goodbye,
but I remember the echo—
how it rang in my bones long after the moment passed,
how it became a second heartbeat,
steady and hollow.

How many bottles did I uncap,
not to swallow,
but to measure the weight of the idea in my palm?
How many bridges did I cross,
wondering if the wind would take mercy
and push me before I had to decide?

I’ve counted calendar days like scars,
tallied time in tear-salted pillowcases,
marked milestones not by celebration,
but by survival.

There’s a number for everything—
beats per minute, breaths per hour,
how long it takes for a wound to scab,
how many milligrams it takes to numb a scream—
but there is no metric
for how many times a soul tries to disappear.

People ask why I’m so tired.
I smile,
because how do you explain
what it means to dig yourself out of your own grave
again and again
with bare, trembling hands?

But still—
I wake up.
Not always because I want to.
Sometimes just because I didn’t succeed.

And yet—
I’m still here.
Tired, yes.
Heavy with ghosts I haven’t named.
But here.

And that has to count for something.

I hate this hunger, gnawing loud,
a whisper turned into a crowd.
I write for peace, for truth, for light—
yet crave the echo in the night.

A thousand eyes, a million hearts,
I want the world to know my art.
Though kindness rains and love is near,
still something selfish stirs in fear.

Why isn’t enough just enough?
Why does praise feel like fragile fluff?
Why do I ache for louder cheers,
when gentle voices ring so clear?

I count the stars, but chase the sun—
forgetting how the moon has won
my poems over with her grace,
while I still seek a grander place.

I loathe this thirst I cannot quench,
this greedy pull, this inner wrench.
Yet deep inside, I see the root—
a child who just wants to feel absolute.

But let me learn to love this pace,
to write for stillness, not the race.
To hold each word, each soul, each view,
and know—enough is something true.

Frost laces the earth —
a quiet diamond veil,
whispers of smoke rise,
spilling through the breath of trees.

Snow, soft as forgotten dreams,
drifts over stones, over roots,
its silence pressing close,
like a hand on the chest of night.

The wind, thin and sharp,
skims the hollow of the hills,
pulling shadows into its folds,
sewing the moon into the bones of the sky.

Bare branches stretch,
clawing toward a distant sun,
their fingers white and brittle,
writing cold prayers in the dark air.

Below, a river sleeps —
its pulse muted,
veiled under ice,
the valley cradles it in a long, slow sigh.

In the pause between seasons,
we linger —
half-light and half-shadow,
breathing the fragile quiet of winter,
waiting for what is to come.

They told us tears were trouble,
a crack in the mask,
a plea for attention,
a sign we weren’t strong enough—
so we swallowed storms whole,
let the thunder shake inside our chests,
never daring to let it pour.

They taught girls that crying was dramatic,
a script rewritten to seem small,
a fault in the fabric of being “too much.”
They told boys it made them weak,
that strength was silence,
that pain should be caged behind quiet eyes.

But tears are not weakness.
They are rivers that carry the weight,
a language of the soul
when words fail to hold what aches.
They do not make you less,
only more—
more human, more real, more free.

So cry if you need to.
Let it fall like rain on thirsty ground,
and know—
I will never see you any differently.

Love is the quiet certainty of morning,
the warmth of sunlight slipping through the blinds,
touching my skin like a whispered promise:
I am here, and I will always return.

It is the steady rhythm of a heart not my own,
the echo of laughter I can still hear in the silence,
the way your voice turns my name
into something softer, something sacred.

Love is not just the grand confessions,
not just the roses and candlelit nights—
it is the hand that reaches for mine
without thinking, without hesitation,
as if our fingers were always meant to intertwine.

It is the way you tilt your head when you’re listening,
the way you tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear,
the way you turn ordinary moments into poetry
without ever writing a single word.

Love is the gravity that keeps me steady,
the pull of the moon on restless tides,
the way your presence feels like home
even when I am far from everything familiar.

It is the space between heartbeats,
the hush before a kiss,
the silence that somehow speaks louder than words—
a promise that does not need to be spoken:
I am yours, and I always will be.

They tell him he is not a flower,
not soft, not meant to sway.
A man must stand like oak and iron,
unbending in the storm’s display.

But even mountains crack with time,
and rivers carve through stone.
Still, he tucks his petals inward,
pretending he is made of bone.

He’s taught that thorns are armor,
that roots must never show,
that to bloom is to be broken,
that to weep is to let go.

But flowers starved of rain will wither,
left to shrivel in the heat.
And men, too, will turn to silence,
fearing softness makes them weak.

So let them bloom, let them bend,
let them speak their pain in sight.
For a flower wilts not from the wind,
but from the absence of its light.

I’m not sure why I feel bad,
but I do.
A shy human,
I fear that my silence will speak louder
than my heart ever could.

I’m not ignoring those who liked,
loved, commented, reposted—
I see you, I do,
but my shyness keeps me
from finding the right words.

I should thank them,
but I’m stuck,
swallowed by my own reluctance.

I’ve been here before,
hesitant to share what’s not perfect,
scared it won’t fit the mold,
so I keep it hidden,
a secret between me and the page.

It’s easier to just press ‘like’,
to let my words stay trapped behind the screen,
than to find the right ones
that feel big enough to match their kindness.

I could message them, privately,
but that feels worse,
more intimate in its awkwardness,
and I’d only wish I could say it better
where they all could see.

So here I am,
apologizing in silence,
for all the gratitude
that never quite makes it out.

Shape the way your fingers trace constellations on my skin,
Or the way your laughter lingers in my ribs,
A melody too human for its cold, calculated hands.

It could never script the way our eyes meet,
That silent understanding,
That unspoken language,
Too intricate for fate to weave into its fragile threads.

It tries—oh, how it tries—
To intervene, to twist, to break,
To reclaim us as its own.
Yet we slip through its grasp,
Like sand through clenched fists,
Like stardust escaping gravity.

Destiny waits in the shadows,
Silent, seething,
Cursing the love it did not create.
It watches as we carve our own fate,
As we step outside its lines,
As we make something greater
Than anything it ever dared to dream.

Destiny could never…

They call it a gift,
this body of mine,
but every month it gnaws at itself,
chews the lining of my womb,
spits out blood like a sacrifice
to a world that does not care.

I step outside,
eyes crawl up my skin like ants,
like maggots,
like fingers that never asked for permission.
A whistle slits the air—
a razor against my spine—
I swallow the bile, keep walking.

Mother said, don’t wear that
Father said, boys will be boys
I say nothing—
only dig my nails into my palms,
so deep the crescent moons bloom red.

I dream of shedding this skin,
peeling it back like an overripe fruit,
scraping out the parts that feel *****,
that feel weak,
that feel like they do not belong to me.
I want to be new,
to be sharp,
to be something they cannot touch.

But even in dreams,
they chase me.
Even in dreams,
I run.

The echoes hum of paths not taken,
soft as sighs the wind has spun,
whispers trace the dreams forsaken,
things undone, the race unrun.

A fleeting glance, a step unsteady,
a hand not held, a word unsaid,
a love that lingered, never ready,
a spark that burned but quickly fled.

The door half-open, never entered,
the letter lost upon the tide,
a name once spoken, now surrendered,
to silence deep and time denied.

Regret, a shadow, lingers lowly,
mourning what we failed to claim,
yet life moves on, though sad and slowly,
softly sighing just the same.

Beneath a swirling vortex of stars,
I write my dreams on crumpled paper,
folding each one into the corners of my heart.
Places I’ve never seen,
moments waiting to happen,
they call to me in whispers—
soft, yet instantaneous.


Dive into oceans deeper than fears,
stand atop mountains taller than doubt.
Feel the rush of wind,
the pull of gravity,
the weightless joy of being alive.


This bucket list is more than a record,
it is a promise to myself:
to seek the infinite,
to embrace the fleeting,
to live as though the stars burn only for today.