It begins not as a wave but as a weight. A constant press against the clay and stone.
the silent seep of doubt of the days that pile and turn my resolve to dust.
I hold. I pack the need with desperate hands, Each thought a sandbag against the rising deep,
And I feel the tremor cross the shifting lands where wakefulness refuses me my sleep.
This wall I built was meant to channel, hold,
and restrain.
But the pressure finds the flaw and my cracks.
The unseen faults that run right through my core; whispering in a language of black and endless water, “You can hold no more.”
A sound then– not a crash. A shudder from the foundation of the soul.
Then, the wet world, once held back, pours through the breach, assuming full control over my sanity.
No more the fight of muscle, will, or mind; the current takes the pieces of the wall and shows resistance to be deaf and blind,
As it beings it’s unforgiving thrall.
I am dissolved. “rearranged”
A mineral scattered in a furious sea.
There is no single solid part of the Chaos is not in me.
It is me.
A brackish tide where I once stood apart.
The Levee breaks to set the water free and drown the map of my own breaking heart.

I look into the mirror
To search for someone real
And wonder what they see in me—
What do they think I feel?
How do they view my character,
This puppet with no strings?
Do they read the way I move,
The clothing that I wear?
And hear the thoughts I tell myself
Reflected in the glass?
Or are they blurred into refrain,
Caught behind a broken pane?

When I was young, I loved the spark
Of patterns, rules, and numbered things.
A mind that burned to understand—
But not the ache emotion brings.
I felt too much—each win a rush,
Each loss a flood I couldn’t name.
No one taught me how to swim,
So I built walls to block the blame.
I hid, I ran, I shut it down—
Each overflow, a threat to drown.
So I learned to think instead:
Why use my heart? I have a head.

Now, I flinch when they perceive
The good in me, when I succeed.
Their praise feels sharp instead of kind,
As if, somehow, they’ve been deceived.
They cheer, but still I feel exposed—
Each glance reflects what isn’t real.
Their gaze, a scalpel tracing seams;
A fraud I fear they might reveal.
I fit in like a puzzle piece,
Lying face down on the table—
Pressed to match a perfect frame,
Mistaken for the same.

I try to mirror how they feel—
Their warmth, their ease, their grace.
But through the glass it cannot pass
And I reflect a cold embrace.
I reach with words instead of warmth,
A mind that steps where hearts would leap.
They knock, but find a hollow sound—
A depth I’ve buried far too deep.
And as they drift beyond my reach,
I rarely chase, or ask them why.
We part like threads pulled from a seam—
Still woven, but untied.

I waste the hours on the floor,
Scrolling dreams I never start.
The list of things I swore I'd make—
A game, a poem, a work of art.
The sun slips in, then disappears—
I barely blink before it's night.
Another year collects like dust,
And still, no spark will catch alight.
Then I look into the mirror,
My face already wet with tears—
A storm inside I cannot brace,
And watch myself collapse.

I’ve internalised invisibility,
Learned to distrust my own adequacy.

Sometime after shedding acquired skin,
I started to scream;

Craving to feel seen eventually gets boring.

Designing for someone else
Wasn’t meant to bend yet felt;
Then I fell.

Into a shroud of contradiction,
Refused to flatten expectations -
Uncontrollably muting conformation.

Play it slow-
not for romance,
but because the strings are blistered,
and every note splits the sky
with fire.

Stroll through the panic,
it’s routine:
duct tape on the windows,
radio on low,
a list of missing birds
tacked to the wall
like fallen saints.

You said you'd carry me,
but the world’s gone grey,
and the olive tree
is just smoke now.

There’s no audience left.
Just wind
and its thousand-watt warning.

Still, your spine curves to the rhythm
like a fever dream from Babylon,
hips like warning sirens,
ankles sunk in ash.

I want to understand
what we ruined,
but only at a drumbeat I can hear,
only with eyes closed.

There was a time
we dressed like lovers.
Now it’s mylar blankets
and filtered masks.

We knew the promise;
we broke it anyway,
above it,
beneath it,
inside it.

Someone keeps whispering
about children,
as if hope still blooms
in poisoned soil.

Play it slow,
with bare hands if you must.
But don’t pretend this isn’t a requiem.
Don’t dress it up in velvet or vows.
Just let the music float
and burn,
like everything else.

One day, and we've all got this coming
the blood oop didn't expect this sudden
drip through the nose caught in the mirror
surprise tentative touch yes this is it

The clutching of the temple
the towels, don't make a mess
the mutterings, don't have time for this
the whispers, please not now but when
is this the right time, and the panic
the panic now worse than the drip

And who can you call, starting to slide
if you could even call, as you slide