A red-dotted outline in the shape of a person sits beside me. It is flat yet moving, invisible to everyone else, but sharp enough to carve itself into my vision. It follows me everywhere, an obedient companion.

This one-dimensional figure lingers in doorways, sits beside me at empty tables, and breathes in the spaces where sweet nothings should be. At night, it invites itself into my bed.

I can feel the weight of its presence when it is near, it makes me wonder how something without form can press so heavily against me. How can unfilled spaces thicken the air, making each breath a struggle?

I long for a place where breathing is easy, where I am not haunted by the shape of what is missing. I hope to exist in a space where absence does not take form and follow me home. And so, I find myself asking for something real. Flesh and bone, warmth and heartbeat. Something tangible.

I simply want the world to end.

I wish I were the ever-changing sky,
shifting hues without hesitation, turning, moving, never staying still.
It does not wait for anyone, nor does it shrink itself for what has already passed.
But I am small and starving,
like a bird perched on the edge of what was.
I peck at crumbs, hoping for more but never asking.

I fly, searching every corner, only to find the same stones.
I turn them over again and again.

How unkind I’ve been to myself, letting my wings grow weary
and my heart reach this point of exhaustion.
But how could I build a nest to rest when home stopped being a place?
Was I too weightless for the wind to carry?
I wanted to be heavy enough to leave an imprint,
to become more than a memory lost in the breeze.

Let me be the sky.

I hate when people push me out of line, leaving me stranded in a gray area. Do they deserve my patience when they leave me in limbo? Here, nothing is whole or certain, only quiet in-betweens that feel endless. I hate the pauses that stretch too long, the weight of waiting, the ache of being suspended in the air.

Most of all, I hate being neglected.

If clarity comes, let it be sharp and unforgiving. If pain follows, so be it. If beauty turns to ruin, at least it was once beautiful. I will endure because I deserve the truth. I deserve more, I always have.

If love is vast, then so is grief. If love is a force, then so is the emptiness it leaves behind.

After laying down all my cards and spilling my love into words, hoping to place it somewhere other than my heart, I learned that it is simply too much; That no matter how I try to set it aside or fight it, love seeps into the smallest spaces. It spills through the cracks, demanding to be acknowledged. And every time I give it even an ounce of attention, it takes over me, growing into something bigger than myself.
I tried to outrun it, drown it in reason, bury it beneath time, but it lingers in the quiet moments until it consumes me whole. I'm left with no choice but to give in, fall to my knees, and let it take me at its mercy. I guess misery never really ends when all we do is call into voids without hearing another echo.

Could I stir fate into action by declaring that I have finally learned to hold love with careful hands? That I am better now? That maybe, I can be exactly what they need. I want to pour myself into every glass that needs filling, this time, neither too much nor too little. I want to be someone uneasy to let go of, to become the same love that haunts me in my silence. It's Valentine's day, and I have no other desires but to meet love where it stands.

This has held me back more than it’s ever pushed me forward.
This big feeling, a consuming fixation.

I’ve delayed myself for it, time and time again.
I’ve broken promises for it,
suffered the consequences, no matter how punishing,
not for my own benefit,
nor anyone else’s.
It hasn’t moved me closer to anything. It’s taken a limb but hasn’t taken me anywhere I’ve wanted to go.
It keeps me stagnant.