Beneath my smile, things decay,
soft rot dressed in polite silence.
Hope is a maggot, writhing—
feeding on what’s left untouched,
too small to ****,
too stubborn to die.

I come as is and don’t worry about much.
My money’s not large yet I don’t wretch.
My writing’s noticeably not as ***** as mulch.

Camouflage and flannel, not gold.
Didn’t blend into high school.
I avoid MLK boulevard.

Talk like I’m white.

Yet my hair gets all puffy and I’m not snow.

I always knew this was coming,
but still, I fought it—
like a moth drawn to the flame,
not out of choice,
but because I was made to burn.

The flame flickered, promising a release
I couldn’t name,
and I chased it, desperate in my hunger,
pretending I had a chance,
knowing deep down it was never a choice—
only the inevitable path to surrender.

Her curtains are blue.
You painted it yellow.

We were almost something—
almost a story,
almost a memory,
almost a beginning that never began.

It’s funny how “almost”
can hurt more than “never,”
because at least “never”
doesn’t pretend it had a chance.

But we—
we were a heartbeat away
from being real,
and sometimes,
that’s the loudest echo of all.

One day,
I will fall into the void—
My bones, bound to the earth,
Heavy with all I’ve held,
Sinking deeper into shadows
Where no light dares to enter.

My soul—
Tethered to the silence,
It whispers back to me
In echoes of a life I barely remember,
Fading between heartbeats
Like a breath taken and forgotten.

And your crocodile tears,
They’ll drown in the same emptiness,
For all the love you claimed to give,
Yet never understood
How to let it stay.

In the void,
There is no judgment,
Only the space where I am
Neither lost nor found,
Just quiet.

They always ask me,
Why do I wear that sweater?
They don’t realize,
It’s the embrace they failed to give—
The warmth, the tenderness,
The quiet support I carry.

My pillows bear the weight of my thoughts,
My silent, saline tears,
A quick hand to pull me from nightmares,
When the world feels too far away.