If you talk
in your dreams,
what does this
really mean???
conversations of
the unknown,
  while in your
dreams are shown,
is it someone
that you know???,
or is it a
complete stranger???,
as your mind
steady wonders, and
as your dream
steady lingers,
If you are talking, while
unconscious, while you
are steady dreaming,
just know it's
very harmless, but has
certain meanings,


B.R.
Date: 05/7/2025

[  ] I don’t know why I’m like this.
[  ] I’m sorry.
[  ] I never meant to hurt you.
[  ] The cruelty slips out,
[  ] and I pretend it’s not mine.

[  ] It’s not on you.
[  ] The storm’s always been mine.
[  ] I’m just someone
[  ] who forgets how to breathe
[  ] until it’s too late.
[  ] And I need help.
[  ] I always have.

[  ] I’m unraveling, quietly.
[  ] I don’t sleep right anymore.
[  ] I don’t smile the same.
[  ] And I’m scared
[  ] of what I’ll lose
[  ] once you see too much.

[  ] You’re the only calm I’ve ever known.
[  ] But I know how this ends.

[  ] I’m not mean because I hate you.
[  ] It’s never been that.
[  ] I just push
[  ] so you’ll run
[  ] before I ruin you.

[  ] I can’t save myself.
[  ] But if I scare you off,
[  ] maybe I can save you
[  ] from becoming part of this mess.

[  ] I want you to stay.
[  ] God, I do.
[  ] But if you stay,
[  ] you’ll see the worst parts
[  ] the ones I bury
[  ] under shaky smiles
[  ] and half-laughed jokes.

[  ] I don’t want to be someone
[  ] you pity.
[  ] I don’t want you
[  ] to hold my pieces
[  ] like they’re yours to carry.
[  ] You don’t deserve that.

[  ] You’re my best friend.
[  ] The only one
[  ] who ever made the dark feel less cruel.
[  ] The only one I wanted to get better for.

[  ] So maybe I need to go quiet.
[  ] Disappear for a while.
[  ] Figure it out.
[  ] Alone.

[  ] Please forgive me
[  ] for being too broken
[  ] to be held.

[  ] I love you.
[  ] I’ll miss you.
[  ] I’m sorry.

You say my grades don’t matter.
You say, “I love you no matter what.”
Then why am I invisible?
Why do they only see the red numbers on my sheet?

You ask me, “Is everything fine?”
What do you expect me to say —
that I’m f**d up?
That I dream about leaving?
That I keep a blade in my front pocket?

You say I don’t share,
but you don’t pay attention.
I play the piano till my fingers bleed,
I scream songs that reflect me,
I even talked to you.

Maybe it’s because you liked me,
never loved me.
Maybe I’m so flawed I can’t see,
or maybe it’s both.
Maybe we’re both flawed —
we’re only human.

In the hollow night where echoes sigh,  
Beneath the weight of a shrouded sky,  
Life flickers dim with a whispering ghost,  
Time’s fleeting kiss is a muted host.  

With each heartbeat, a sorrowful toll,  
As dreams disperse like the leaves that fall,  
The specter of death in the twilight's embrace,  
Hovers near in this desolate place.  

A dance of shadows on gravestones worn,  
Each moment cherished may turn to scorn;  
For life is but dust in the coldest breeze,  
A tale written down with forgotten pleas.  

We walk through valleys where echoes won't fade,  
Chasing lost hopes in the twilight shade.  
In darkness we linger, and what do we find?  
Only shadows that echo a heart left behind.

What would have happened if I knocked on their door,
With blood running down my thighs.
Letting them see what I was going through,
Would I have been on the bus the next day.
On the way to school,
Wondering if anyone cared .
Would I be here now,
I know they would have gotten me extreme help.
And maybe I would have gotten that help,
Maybe I wouldn’t be cutting still,
Wondering if anyone cares .

I do this thing
where I disappear.
Nothing new. Three times now,
maybe four.

It’s a hobby,
like scrapbooking,
but with my own silence.

The first time,
they said it was hormones.
The second, attention.
Now it’s just
a phase I’m nailing.

I’m very good at it.

Every morning,
a resurrection.
Lipgloss.
Mascara.
Shaky hands. Ta-da.

Can you hear the applause?
Neither can I.

The skin’s still here.
So is the mirror.
And the voice that tells me
not to eat,
not to speak,
not to exist so loudly.

They call me dramatic,
as if pain
needs a spotlight.
As if I don’t bleed
in lowercase letters.

I joke.
I wear band shirts.
I make playlists with
no happy endings.
So aesthetic.

And they love it—
like how I perform survival
like it’s a talent show.
“Such a bright girl.”
“Such potential.”
As if I’m not already
writing my vanishing act
in invisible ink.

There is a kind of power
in being looked at
and not seen.

Do you know how it feels
to scream into a pillow
so well it forgets
how to echo?

I do.

Dying
is an art, too.
But living—
living is the part
I haven’t mastered.

Yet.