Lies are mercy, aren't they?
Little bandages over wounds too raw to touch,
soft words wrapped around a blade-
because what's a little blood between friends?

They call them shadows.
but don't they have weight?
Haven't they sat beside us at dinner tables,
held our hands at funerals.
kissed our foreheads goodnight?
Haven't they whispered in our ears-
"Shh. The truth would only ruin this."

People wear them like armor,
stitched with good intentions
because nothing says I care
like a well-tailored deception.
But armor rusts.
Tongues slip.
And no one likes the taste of old lies.

They lie because the world doesn't want the truth
Because the mirror would rather blur the cracks
than reflect the hollow-eyed thing staring back.
Because I'm fine
is easier than I haven't slept in days.
Because It's okay
is a free pass to avoid confrontation.
Because some truths burn.
and some people would rather drown in gasoline
than risk lighting the match.

Lies keep love alive, don't they?
One says, I'll never leave.
The other doesn't ask What if you do?
One says. I trust you.
They both pretend it's true.
Betrayals become misunderstandings.
Silence becomes space.
Absence becomes freedom.
Say it enough, and it sounds real.
Believe it enough, and maybe it doesn't hurt.

But lies don't stay small.
They grow ribs
Grow teeth.
Learn to walk on their own.

They slip from tongues like prayers-
practiced, automatic.
holy in their own way.
They turn love into a contract.
guilt into a leash,
truth into an inconvenience.
They say, You are safe.
They say. You are right.
They say. You had no choice.

Then-
a crack in the mask,
a break in the voice,
a silence too loud to ignore.

And suddenly, the truth isn't some mythical beast,
not a monster waiting under the bed.
If's just there, standing in the doorway.
waiting. Watching.
Tired of being the villain in
someone else's story.

Lies aren't mercy, are they?
Just wounds left open too long-
festering, rotting, waiting to be called by
their real name

I wasn’t crying.
I was hydrating my grief
from the inside out.

He said, “You’re not dramatic. Just detailed.”
I said, “You’re not cruel. Just consistent.”
We called that a compromise.
(or else a hostage negotiation.)

There’s glitter in my carpet
from a party I threw
to prove I wasn’t waiting on him.
I wore white.
Not bridal,
but still white enough
to make someone feel guilty.

I lit sparklers like sirens,
toasted survival.
Nobody clapped.

I collect apologies I don’t want,
write scripts for confrontations
that end in standing ovations,
then lose the footage
in a hardware crash
I secretly caused.

I take the stairs two at a time,
just to feel something chase me.
I text “I’m fine :)”
like it’s a safe word—
to keep the spiral
polite.

I rehearse the voicemail
he never left
like it’s Chekhov.
Like if I say it right,
the gun goes off
and I disappear
beautifully.

At the end of the dream,
he’s always wearing my hoodie—
saying something tender,
just slightly
too late.

And I wake up
with eyelashes on my wrists,
thinking—
Maybe I am the problem.
But God—
you should’ve seen the poems.

Put on right out of the womb, a crown was placed on her head
5 diamonds are placed to represent each burden
Perfection
Therapist
Extra parent
No remembrance of her childhood
And giving when there's nothing left to give
As the years go on, she will make mistakes
Hers being the hardest to forgive
She will take the pain and burdens of the ones who brought her into this world and others without a second of hesitation and still feel as if she is not enough
She will me extraordinarily mature for her conquest asked of her
But not nearly mature enough for what she wants
She will put every person before her
But when she does something for herself, she's called selfish and lazy
She surrounds herself with books to take her to a place that expects nothing but the flip of a page
Countless times,
She will compare herself to others
She will stay up late working on that paper to get extra points just to please her parents
She will have impossible expectations to meet
Do you know who she is?
She's the eldest daughter
She won't want to have kids for the fear of putting her oldest through the same pain
But most of all, she won't get what she craves the most
Unconditional love

You agonize the narrow
I must leave you there
To tenderize the pharaoh
Layer lush and ample fabric bare
Share the weight of marrow
Several stones to spare in tow
Though one good strike, straight as arrow
Between the breast would **** the sparrow

Recognize the symbols
Mind maneuvers nice and nimble
Cracking fingers thumping chest
Lay them down to rest in thimbles
Grasping straws like thorns in thistles
Language lingers, yearns to click
Waiting for a whistle
Brain is Pavlov, oilslick
Alchemizing maladies
To blunt the morning pistol

Bathe in shattered pools of thought
Meddling in silence
Betwixt a tug and vice grip
Stands the one who shapes with violence
Defend the winding gauntlet
Soothed by gentle guidance
Send the snare in riveting
For snakes who break from Camelot
And those who sleep with science

And she fell,
into ice-cold water.
Her legs kicked,
gasping for air
that once suffocated her.

She didn't scream,
reached her hand out,
not for light, but to bid goodbye.

She looked around,
to realize the dark
she had walked into.

Fate laughed,
as she closed her eyes.
Oh, what an irony,
she couldn't swim.

Every time I said I wanted to die
it wasn't the truth, I wanted to live.
Because I love life, I love people,
I love making people smile,
I love being the reason somebody laughs
or feels loved.

See, I didn't wanna die
but a part of me was dying
because of all the abuse.
I wanted to be free
of all the hurt, free of the reality,
the person I love more than anything.
Never existed,
just an unfortunate ghost.

I didn't wanna die
but a part of me did.

Fighting those demons,
the ones that whispered in my ear,
the ones that tore at my soul,
I held on tight to hope,
to the belief that one day
the pain would go away.

But it didn't.

And so, I wore a mask,
a smile that hid the tears,
laughter that drowned out the screams.
I became the master of pretending,
the expert at deception.

Yet, beneath it all,
beneath the laughter and smiles,
the truth remained,
a silent scream that echoed
through the depths of my being.

I didn't wanna die
but a part of me did.

And now, as I pen these words,
I'm not searching for sympathy,
or a knight in shining armor.
I simply want to be heard,
to let my pain have a voice,
to acknowledge that it existed.

Because within that pain,
that darkness that threatened to consume,
a flicker of hope remained.
A tiny flame that whispered,
"Keep fighting, keep living,
for there is love and joy yet to be found."

So, I won't give in to the darkness,
to the lies that whisper in the night.
I'll fight with every breath,
with every beat of my heart,
to reclaim my life, my happiness,
my freedom from the shadows that haunt.

See, every time I said I wanted to die
it wasn't the truth, I wanted to live.

I'm emotionally sectioned, yet I still perceive all your calls and beckons. Why? Why do I feel the need to please you, with every action that I do, and how does this doubt I have still seep through?
Pain... Pain is the periodical assault into my neuroqurtex, in other words I'm trapped into this vortex that is you. But that's my fault, for this, this is a self inflicted issue.
I broke down when I wrote down my feelings on parchment and paper surrounded by haters that laugh when I cry, and I'm emotionally bound so when my tears start flowing and they start gawking, I wish they would all just die. But looking back at my previous issues and problems I realized I'm stronger because I have solved them. Strong enough to write this for you, explain my feelings I have twords you, yet this is all my fault, I should have for warned you.
You pieced me together. Made me realize that no matter the weather I'm stronger that ever. Hell, with your pretty smile and eyes and a few thought out actions made me realize that my thought processes should be compromised.
Love... Love is the longing of volatile emotions. Love makes my heart warped like a cataclysmic contortion, yet without your love  my life is no better than an abortion! Like I said before, I feel the need to please you, but if you don't have these feelings that I do, like a golem I'll be standing, waiting silently.
But you've enchanted me. Now I have to revert to fantasy, live life like it will never be a reality. So I sit down and write out using verbs and pronoun's to describe how I feel now. These words... They may never reach you, but to be honest, I could never muster up the weakness to mistreat you. Compassion is my guiding action, no selfish thoughts or evil plans hatching. But I must be respectful and I pray these actions I take never make you resentful. That's the truth... and if the truth hurts then the truth works, and since I'm stuck here astonished how could I not be brutally honest.
When its all said and done if its too much just tell me, because its your cross hairs that took aim and fell me, because its your captivating glance that withheld me, and I get it I'm a tad bit subsonic, but when it comes to my emotions I know that I'm on it. That's my piece, no yelling or screaming, like a golem I'll be standing, waiting silently.

He said I always make things worse.

I traced our last conversation
inside my lip with my tongue,
until it burned like citrus.

My teeth still taste like that night—
miso soup, metallic coffee, a dare—
and the word “almost” said until it split.

I don’t start the fires—
I just know how to fan them
so the smoke spells mine,
so the ashes spell proof.

“You’re welcome for the mirror,” I said,
then, “You flinched first,”
like scripture I was tired of reciting.

He called me a problem
and then prayed for something exciting.
Well, God listens.
And she’s been on my side lately.
(And sometimes inside me.
And sometimes wearing red.)

You say I write like it’s a weapon.
But you brought a sword to my poem.
You heard me speak—and called it war.

I’m not the plot twist.
I’m the motif.
I’m the whisper that keeps showing up
even when you don’t name it.
Especially when you don’t name it.

You wanted a girl who could break
without getting any on your shoes.
Who called it miscommunication
when it was a massacre.
I called it Thursday.

I made you feel.
You made it a crime scene.
Now every sentence tastes like sirens.
But sure—blame me
for the blood in your mouth
when you kissed me wrong.

So yeah—
maybe I do make things worse.
But worse is where the story gets good.
Where you start reading slower.
Where your hands start shaking.

It’s not that I ruin things.
I just ask questions
that don’t look good in daylight.

It’s not that I mean to wreck things.
I just don’t know how to leave a room
without checking every exit
twice.

And labeling each one ‘almost.’

You ever love someone
so hard you forget to be charming?
Me neither.

He thought he was the mystery.
I’m the red string
and the corkboard
and the girl in the basement
with the map of everything that never happened.

You didn’t fall for me.
You fell through me.
That’s not my fault.
It’s gravity.
Or girlhood.
Or God, laughing behind her hand.

Say it again. Slower. This time, with your hands in your pockets.