I wish you would’ve noticed.
The way I flinched at the sight of her
The way I laughed at things, even if they weren’t funny.
How I stopped calling you “daddy” 
Stopped leaving my room.
Stopped giving you hugs.

I wish you would’ve noticed.
All the bruises.
All the fear.
All the crying.

I wore them like perfume.
And still, you never smelled it. 

The scent was strong, filled with suffering and pain. 
It followed me everywhere. 

But you never recognized the scent of heartache.
Of betrayal.

And, eventually, I stopped crying altogether.
Because I knew tears wouldn’t make you notice anyway. 

You were supposed to be my dad.
I trusted you.
I loved you.
And you never noticed.

And even when you did,
you left. 
On your own terms.

And I was just strung along,
because I didn’t have a choice.

You moved on.
A new house.
A new girlfriend.
A new life.

But you never thought to apologize.
You never once asked what I wanted.
What I went through.
What went on behind closed doors.

I was expected to just…
forget.
But I never did.
And I don’t think I ever will.

Still,
you never noticed.
Or maybe you did.
Maybe you just didn’t care

I wanted an explanation.
I wanted to grieve.
Not for the people I left behind.
But for the person I once was.

I wanted to mourn for the version of me who trusted you.
The one who thought you would protect me.

Because you were my dad.

You were supposed to be my role model.
The one who was supposed to tell me that it’s okay.
To defend me. 
To tell me I’m not dramatic.
That it’s okay to feel this way.

Now, you just yell at me.
Argue.
Get mad because I isolate myself.

“Why are you so lazy?”
Your words chipping away at me.
Just how hers did.

Have you ever thought
I’m not lazy?
That, instead, I’m trying to cope?
Trying to live?
Trying to put on a happy face?

It’s ironic.

The person I thought once loved me, now treats me as if I’m a burden.

I never did get that apology.
And maybe I never will.

Meet me at 12:35
When everybody is eaten by lunch hall
Bring no one but
all of your courage and your soul
He wanted to talk to me
about my spilled out lingering love
He was a year older than me

I followed his command
and my pulsating throbbing head
It was sun through window
and class at corner, locked

I walked in with open eyes
and I breathed Hi
He came and put his lips
on mine, hands on hips
I followed his pattern
and hand he made me put
on his source of love
his crotch

It made my brain cold
as dead body inside
He didn't stop until 12:45
And then he left
I breathed bye

I never saw him again
After that line
I learnt how this work like


---

It was only a door,
a frame of wood and steel,
hinges that whispered secrets
every time it swung shut.

But one night, it broke —
splintered by words sharper than fists,
its edges warped by the weight
of slamming, shouting, silence.

I patched it with care,
sandpaper and nails,
a veneer too smooth to betray
the fault lines beneath.

Yet the wind remembers.
It presses through cracks too thin to see,
a cold draft that lingers in rooms
I’ve since repainted.

Even now, when the house is quiet,
I flinch at creaks,
of shadows moving too fast.
The door stands still,
but I am the one that warps

I was tied to the train tracks.
For all the horrible things I didn’t do?

I had a small knife.
What’s the point?
It’s dull.

I could try,
but it’d be endless.

It started as a rumor, that morning.
By my last class, gym,
it was the fourth time they pushed me.

What’s the point of getting back up
if it’s dulled to happen again?

I’d let them,
especially him,
crush my skull until I died.

The funny thing is,
the rumor was true.

I did have a crush on him.
I was just a boy.

I feel like a stranger in my own skin,
like a paper marked by hands that shouldn’t have been.
You painted on me with borrowed strokes,
colors I never asked for, lines I never spoke.

I tried to erase it all,
scrubbed until I bled.
But no matter how I try,
the red remains instead.

Why do I feel this shame,
when none of it was mine to claim?
Or is that just another lie—
one you left behind in my name?

Go on, throw another shade,
brush another lie across my frame.
Add one more mark on my arm—
pretend you never meant me harm.

Are you satisfied now?
Does silence taste sweet?
Is it peace you feel,
or just a hollow retreat?

The stains, they never fade,
they follow me—like ghosts that stayed.
I feel ***** in a way soap can’t cleanse,
not even the rain makes any sense.

I hope the paint on your hands never dries,
I hope guilt sleeps where your comfort lies.
And when you close your eyes,
may my tears echo in your skies.

My hands tremble still,
my voice quiet and thin.
You touched beauty and broke it—
I was never meant to let you in.

Run.
Let shame chase your steps.
Lie.
Wear your mask again.

Stain.
Things that were never yours to touch.
March.
Through lives you’ve broken too much.

Paint a little more.
Maybe that will hide the cracks.
Paint her, paint me—
but never give the colors back.

Your fingerprints are pressed on pages of my life,
you signed a name I never gave you the right.

Run.
Lie.
Scream.
Hide.

Paint.
Stain.
Break.
Divide.

Yo­u stole my innocence like ink on stolen lines.
Does your guilt whisper at night,
the way your memory haunts mine?