I am utterly alone,
A hollow echo in the dark,
Where silence swallows every tone,
And hope fades like a distant spark.

The nights stretch long with aching still,
No hand to reach, no voice to call,
My tears are rivers, yet they spill
Unnoticed, unseen—nothing at all.

This is the time in life,
Where life is not worth living,
Each day gets harder to survive.
‘Life’ drags on day by day,
While you hope,
For something to go right,
But it never does.

In solitude I retreat,
a hermit seeking solace.
Depression, my companion,
wrapping me in its Melancholic shroud.

I sever threads of connection,
Words become heavy stones,
and I carry them alone.

If possible, I seek forgiveness for my withdrawal,
For it is not you I flee from,
but the tempest within that threatens to consume me.

When storms rage, I seek refuge
in the caves of my mind,
where echoes of past battles revive.

But know this, my tender-hearted muse,
Your tears are constellations,
each drop a universe of hurt.

I ache to see your face again.
Yet my hands tremble,
afraid that their touch will unravel storms.

So here I stand silent,
Know that my withdrawal is not apathy,
but a dance of desperation.

When the tempest subsides,
when I emerge from my self-imposed exile,
I'll trace constellations upon your skin, and
and whisper, "I was lost, but now I'm found."

For in silence, I seek healing,
and in your eyes, I find my North Star.

This lovely phase,
This lovely self-
Inflicted pain?

The lovely minutes
Of the deepest dread
As a lovely song
Removes my head.

A lovely day
Chopped up in parts
Of the ignorance
Of a lonely heart
That cannot have
The lovely harp
That once begged for its love so readily.
And when it stopped,
The silence fell heavily.

It all bled and bled and bled.

The hurt. The abandonment. The truth. The metaphors. 

It all bled.

It all bled so vicious and dark,
That I started wondering if my bitterness
started staining the crimson of my blood.
And painted it a stark black,
As I picked apart all that I lack.

And I bled and bled and bled like
The never-ending torture 
Of birth and death.

I got on the bus alone today
and almost no one else was on it.

As it neared our campus the setting sun
hit the window so right, sending a golden corona
across the dusty seats,
bathing us all in this brilliant golden light.
Brown eyes turned to honey, blue ones to oceans—
a handful of minor gods and goddesses
on their way to class,
in sweatpants and backpacks.
It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

None of us wanted to pull the cord to stop,
but finally, someone did,
and I had to get off.
I feel alive on the bus, I feel alone at midnight.
I am the princess of the bus.

I make my boyfriend Aiden worse without intending to.
I make a lot of things worse without intending to.
I think that if I just spent a lifetime on the bus,
circling round and round at around 6:30 p.m.
I would cause a lot less harm on this planet.
But someone always pulls the cord, even if I don’t.

Aidan won’t pull the cord and neither will I.
We might be riding this bus for a long time yet.