I was shaped by trembling hands,
not out of love but longing’s ghost.
Like Frankenstein’s own sorrowed child,
I reach for hearts I want the most.
Made to crave what won’t remain,
soft touches lost in pouring rain.

Cities to move,
jobs to begin,
essays to shape,
poems to spin.

Books to read,
songs to feel,
wounds to close,
and time to heal.

A life to build
with steady flame
not from nothing,
but from name.

A name I gave,
a self I chose
the girl who stayed
when no one knows.

Let them vanish,
fade, pretend
I write the start,
I choose the end.

Fires turned to cold, hard stone,
Joy replaced by nights alone.
I offered you the shore, the sky
You watched in silence, passed me by.
Now I let go of sweet old dreams,
The late-night thoughts, the quiet beams.

when someone fuels your creativity this much,
it’s not because they’re your destiny.
it’s because they’re your trigger.
a mirror.
a reflection you had to confront
so you could finally speak in your own voice.

I was meant to be a masterpiece
but I remain a sketch
left leaning against the wall,
my outlines fading in the silence.

The brush never touched me.
No colors ever dared to fill me in.
I am paused mid-creation,
a ghost of what I could’ve been.

Turned away from the light,
as if my presence is too loud,
too much,
too unfinished to be seen.

Not art.
Not ruin.
Just something left behind
too heavy to display,
too delicate to destroy,
too much of a burden to face.

You didn’t just fumble love
you lost a whole cinematic universe
without even noticing.
You blurred out a photo
we never took but could have.
A story half-told,
a masterpiece left in pencil
then folded away,
forgotten in the drawer of what-ifs.