He never got to come home—
or maybe he did,
but only as ash on a mantle,
a whisper in empty halls.

His laughter never found its way back,
his smile never crossed that threshold—
just the echo of memories
haunting every corner.

Photos line the walls,
one, two, three, four—
Father, Mother, Daughters—
but the count shifted somewhere along the way,
and we became three,
learning how to hold a space
he no longer filled.

We still set his side at the table,
his chair pulled close,
his side untouched,
clothes folded like time stopped in the closet,
everything still his—
a silent claim on a house that hasn’t been his
for eight years.

He left that home,
and came back in glass—
seven years ago.

So why does the house still belong to him?
Is it how we cope?
Or is it easier
than facing the empty other side?

I feel alone
in my own shell:
playing pretend,
with my smile laid out on a shelf.
I’ll study grinns until they fit my heart.
And they cover it with blinding light.
Because the darkness
became a treasure I shall only see.
I let no one grasp it,
no one touches my true self.
No wonder I feel alone
when I don’t let anyone see myself.

my mistakes i see
clearly good deeds are empty
why

Pull my tongue out of my mouth,                                                           ­           
                                                     ­                                                                 ­
  use a spoon & hollow me out,                                                             ­   
                                                             ­                                                       
  take off a chunk of my skin,                                                            ­              
                                                  ­                                                                 ­     
  it's okay, there's life within                                                           ­           
                                                     ­                                                             
Pluck my eyes from my face,                                                            ­                                                  
I don't want to see the human race,                                                    
                                                                ­                                              
remove my fingers from my hand,                                                      
                                                                ­                                                      
you don't need to understand                                                       ­                           
                                                                ­                                                 
 Cut my heart from my chest,                                                           ­                     
                                           ­                                                                 ­          
I guarantee I won't contest                                                          ­                        
                                        ­                                                                 ­         
Go ahead & pick my brain,                                                           ­         
                                                                ­                                                  
you will see nothing
remains,                                                         ­                     
                                                                ­                                                  
Go ahead, you will see,                                                             ­                   
                                             ­                                                                 ­    
you will find an empty me

I should've counted the days
When you were here 
Now I count every second
That you're not here

Don’t you ever
eat
out of tradition?
Like,
you are not hungry;
but not loaded either.
Your stomach is just
as numb as your heart.

But you still eat,
because food tastes good;
because they sat you down;
because you ought to;
because you’re used to the feeling.

Even when there is no joy
to the taste;
you eat.

Eat,
eat,
eat.

You did it so often
the action
must have lost all its meaning.

Semantic satiation.

Fading lines, a whispered plea,
Erasing myself, for all to see.
A gentle wash, a silent tear,
Dissolving slowly, year by year.

No angry shout, no sudden break,
Just fading colors, for goodness sake.
A muted echo, soft and low,
Where vibrant hues used to brightly glow.

The canvas blank, a pristine white,
Lost in shadows, out of sight.
A gradual leaving, soft and deep,
Secrets that I vow to keep.

No grand farewell, no final bow,
Just emptiness, and only now
I understand the silent art,
Of fading softly, setting apart.